Alice Wilde, the raftsman's daughter : a forest romance

UTLEDBE & SONS, THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

ALICE WILDE;

THE RAFTSMAN'S DAUGHTER.

% cJJomt Romance.

MRS. METTA V VICTOR.

LONDON :

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,

THE EROADWAY, LUDGATE.

ALICE WILDE.

CHAPTEK I.

THE CABIN HOME.

" T?ui ar' log bobs 'round like the old sea-sarpint," mut-
teml Ben Perkins to himself, leaning forward with his pole-
hook and trying to fish it, without getting himself too deep in
the water. "Hang the thing ! I can't tackle it no how;" and
he waded in deeper, climbed on to a floating log, and endeav-
ored again to catch the one which so provokingly evaded him.
Ben was a " hand" employed in David Wilde's saw-mill, a
few rods farther up the creek, a young fellow not without
claims to admiration as a fine specimen of his kind and call-
ing. His old felt-hat shadowed hair as black as an Indian's,
and made the swarthy hue of his face still darker ; his cheeks
and lips were red, and his eyes blacker than his hair. The
striped wammus bound at the waist by a leather belt, and th«
linen trowsers rolled up to the knees, were picturesque in they"
way and not unbecoming the lithe, powerful figure.

Ben had bobbed for saw-logs a great many times In his
Me, and was a person too quick and dextrous to meet with
frequent accidents ; but upon this day, whether the sudden
sight of a tiny skiff turning the bend of the river just below
and heading up the creek threw him off his guard, or what it
was, certain it is, that stretching forward after that treacher-
ous log, he lost his balance and fell into the water. He did
not care for the ducking ; but he cared for the eyes which
saw hi™ receive it ; his cars tingled and his cheeks burned
as he heard the silvery laugh which greeted his misfortune.
Climbing up on to a log again, he stood dripping like a
merman and blushing like a peony, as the occupant of the
boat rowed nearer.

3 ALICE WILDE.

u Keep out the way them logs, Miss Alice, or ye'U get up-
sot !" he cried, glad of an excuse for attracting attention from
his own mishap.

" I can take care of myself, thank you," was the gay an-
swer. " Do you see father's boat coming, anywhere in sight,
Ben f He was to be home this afternoon ; and I took a fancy
to go down and meet him."

" I don't see nuthin' of it. That war a mighty big raft he
took down to Centre City ; the biggest raft that ever floated
on that river, I reckon. He mought not be home for two or
three days yet, Miss Alice. Gorry ! but won't he hev a heap
of money when he sells that ar' raft !"

" And he'll be sure to bring me something pretty— he at
ways does."

" He knows what's what," responded Ben, stealing a side-
long, admiring glance at the sweet, young face in the skiff.

If a compliment was intended, it was not understood by the
hearer.

" Yes, father always knows just what suits me best. Dear
father ! I hope he will come home to-night. I've been out pick-
ing blackberries for supper— just look at my hands," and she
held up two pretty, dimpled hands, as if to show how charming
they were, instead of to betray the purple-tipped fingers.

But Alice Wilde did not know they were pretty, in sober
truth, for she had never been praised, flattered, nor placed in
a situation where she could institute comparisons.

" Well, Ben, good-by. I shall float down the river a few
miles, and if I don't see him, I can row back alone."

" You're mighty pert with the oars, for a gal. I never
seed no woman 't could row a boat like you, Miss Alice."

" Thank you," she said, with a bright smile, as she turned
her little birchen skiff about and struck out into the river again.

Ben watched that graceful form until it was out of sight,
heaving a sigh, as he turned again to his work, which told how
absorbed he had been.

Drifting down the river, under the shadow of precipitous
bluffs, while the sunshine flecked with gold the rolling prairie-
land upon the opposite side, the young girl sang wild negro-
melodies which she had learned of the two old colored people
who formed her father's retinue of house-servants. Rich and

A BEAUTIFUL ECHO. 7

clear, her voice floated through those beautiful solitudes, heard
only by the envious birds in the trees which overtopped th«

bluffs:

Presently she had listeners, of whom she was unaware. An
sbrupt bend in the river hid from her the little boat with itl
single sail, fluttering like a butterfly against the current. It
held two persons— David Wilde, the owner and captain of the
raft of which Ben had spoken, a rough, striking-looking man
of middle age, attired in a pink calico shirt and brown linen
jacket and trowsers, who sat at the tiller smoking his pipe ;
and a young man of four and twenty, extremely good-looking
and fashionably-dressed.

" What's that ?" exclaimed the latter, as the sweet voice
thrilled over the water.

" That's herself, sure," replied the raftsman, listening ;
" she's comin' to meet me, I reckon. It's just like her."

"And who's 'herself?'" queried the other, laughing.

" My cub, sir. Won't yer take yer flute out of yer pocket
and give her a tune, before she sees us ? It'll set her to won-
derin' what 'n earth it is."

The young man put the pieces of his flute together, and
joined in the strain, rising loud and exultant upon the breeze ;
the voice ceased ; he stopped playing ; the voice began, and
again he accompanied it ; it sang more exuberently than
ever, and the flute blent in with it accordantly.

It was not until they were nearly upon her fairy bark that
they came in sight of the singer, her bright hair flying, her
cheeks redder than roses with the double exercise of rowing
and singing. Philip Moore thought he had never beheld so
lovely an apparition.

" Oh, father, I'm so glad you're home again. Did you hear
that beautiful echo ?" she asked, her eyes all aglow with
surprise and pleasure. " I never heard any thing like it be-
fore. It must be the rocks."

" 'Twant the rocks — 'twas this here gentleman," said David
Wilde, smiling. " Mr. Moore, this is my daughter Alice."

Unknown to himself, his tone and look were full of pride
as he presented her to his companion, who never paid a more
sincere tribute of admiration to any woman, however accom-
plished, than he Aid to the artless child who retMrned his
deen bow with so divine a blu.sk

8 AIJCB WILDE.

" I thought Td come to meet you, and run a race home
with you," she said to her father, with a fond look.

" That's just like my little cub— allers on hand. Wall, go
ahead 1 the breeze is fair, and I guess we'll beat ye. Hope
ye'll make good time, fur I'm beginning to get rather gro^ly
in the region of the stomach."

" Pallas expects you," returned Alice, laughing.
" If your skiff were large enough for two, I'd take those
oars off your hands," said the young gentleman.

"Nobody ever touches this, but myself," and away sped
the fairy affair with its mistress, darting ahead like an arrow,
but presently dropping behind as they tacked, and then shoot-
ing* past them again, the young girl stealing shy glances, as
she passed, at the stranger who was watching her with min-
gled curiosity and admiration. So sweetly bashful, yet so
arch and piquant— so rustic, yet so naturally graceful— so
young, he could not tell whether she esteemed herself a child
or a woman— certainly she was very different from the dozen
of tow-headed children he had taken it for granted must run
wild about the ' cabin' to which he was now about to make a
visit.

" How many children have you, Mr. Wilde ?"
" She's alL That's my mill you see just up the mouth of
the creek thar. We're nigh on to my cabin now ; when we've
rounded that pint we shall heave in sight. Seems to me I
smell supper. A cold snack is very good for a day or two
but give me suthin' of Pallas' getting up after it. Thar's the
cabin !"

Philip had been following with his eyes the pretty sailor,
who had already moored her craft to the foot of a huge elm,
overhanging the gravelly shore from a sloping bank above,
and now stood in the shadow of the tree awaiting them.

If it had not been for the blue smoke curling up in thin
wreaths from a stick chimney which rose up in the rear, hft
would hardly have discovered the dwelling at first sight— a
little one-story log-house, so completely covered with clamber1
Jng vines that it looked like a green mound. Tartarian honey-
suckles waved at the very summit of the chimney, and wild-
roses curtained every window.

Taking upon herself the part of hostess, Alice led the way

UNEXPECTED C0M3PAKT. 9

10 toe house. Philip was again agreeably surprised, as he
entered it. He had read of squatter life, and considered him-
self " posted" as to what to expect— corn-bread and bacon, an
»bsence of forks and table-cloths, musquitoes, the river for a
wash-basin, sand for soap, the sun for a towel, and the privi-
lege of sharing the common bed. But upon entering the
cabin, he found himself in a large room, with two smaller
apartments partitioned from the side ; the cooking seemed to
be done in a shanty in the rear. The table was set in the
center of the room, with a neat cloth, and a great glass plate,
heaped with blackberries, stood upon it, and was surrounded
by a wreath of wild-flowers woven by the same dimpled hands
which had managed the oars so deftly.

" 'Clar to gracious, masser, you tuk us unbeknown."
The new speaker was an old negro woman, portly and
beaming, who appeared at the back deor, crowned with a
yellow turban, and bearing in her left hand that scepter of
lier realm, the rolling-pin.

" But not unprepared, hey, Pallas ?"

" Wall, I dunno, masser. I didn't spec' the pickaninny 'ud
eat more 'n one roas' chicken. But thar's two in de oven ;
for, to tell de trute, masser, I had a sense dat you war a
comin' ; and I know'd if you wasn't, me and my ole man
wouldn't be afraid of two fowls."

" But I've brought home company, Pallas."
" Hev you now, masser ? I'se mighty glad to hear it. I'd
js soon wait on masser's frien's as to sing de Land of Canaan.
Yer welcome," she added, dropping a courtesy to the guest
with as much importance as if she were mistress of the house
— as, in fact, she had been, in most matters, for many long
years. He made her a deep and gracious bow, accompanied
by a smile which took her old heart by storm.

Retreating to the kitchen outside, where Saturn, her hus-
band, had been pressed into service, and sat with an apron
over his knees pareing potatoes, buoyed up by the promise of
roast chicken from his wife, she told him as she rolled and
cut cut her biscuits :

" The finest gentleum she had sot eyes on sence she left ole
Virginny. His smile was enough to melt buttah— jus' de smile
what a sweet-mannered young gentleum ougnt to have. She

10 ALICE WILDE.

was mighty glad," she added, in a nrysterious whisper, " dat ar1
pickaninny was no older.

" Wha' for ?" queried Saturn, pausing, with a potato on the
end of his knife, and a look of hopeless darkness on his face,
barring the expanding whites of his eyes.

" You nebbah could see tru a grin'-stone till I'd made a hole
m it for yer. It's a wonder I tuk up wid such an ole fool as
you is, Saturn. If yer eyes were wurf half as much as dem
pertaters' eyes, yer could see for yerself. Hasn't masser swore
agin dem city gentleum ?"

" He's swore — dat's so."

" And he never would forgive one as would come and stea,
away his precious child — nebbah 1" continued Pallas, lifting
her rolling-pin threatingly at the bare thought. " If he war
rich as gold, and lubbed her to distraction, 'twouldn't make, a
speck o' difference. He's jealous of the very ground she walks
on ; and he hates dem smoof-spoken city folks."

" Do you suspec' he's a kidnapper — dat ar' vis'ter ?" asked
Saturn, his eyes growing still bigger, and looking toward the
door as if he thought of the possibility of the handsome young
stranger carrying him off.

" You is born a fool, and you can't help it. Put 'em 'tatera
in de pot, and mind yer own bisness. I want some more wood
for dis fiah — immejetly !"

When Pallas said " immejetly !" with that majestic air,
there was nothing left for her worser half save to obey, and
he retreated to the wood-pile with alacrity. On going out he
run against Ben Perkins, who had been standing by the open
door, unperceived, for the last five minutes.

" Why, Ben, dat you ?" asked Pallas, good-naturedly, not
dreaming that he had overheard her confidential conversation.

" Yes ; I came up to the house to seen if Captain Wilde had
any orders for the mill to-night. I see him when he passed
the creek. Who's with him, Pallas ?"

The old colored woman gave a sudden sharp glance at th«
youth's troubled face.

" It's a Men' for all I know. What bisness is it of yours
to be askin' ?"

" I s'pose I hain't no business. Do you think it's likely it's
anybody as expects to marry Miss Alice ?" his voice trembled,
*«■* lie looked at his boots as he asked tl**1 question.

SODA BI8CUIT8. tl

" Marry Miss Alice ! What a simpi'un you is, Ben. WhaV
'h;it pickaninny but a chile yot, I'se like to laiow ? a little chi'
as don't know nothin' 'bout marryin' nobody. 'Sides that,
ong as her fadder libs, she'll never marry, not if it war a king.
He'd be mad as fury ef any one was to dar' to speak of such
a thing. Humf ! my pickaninny, indeed !" with an air of
scorn and indignation deeply felt by the youth, whose face
was flushing beneath the implied rebuke. " Ef you'll stop a
few minutes, I'll give yer some of dese soda biscuits," she said,
after a brief silence, secretly pitying a trouble at which she had
shrewdly guessed, though she resented the audacity of the
hope from which it sprang. " Dat ar' man-cook what gets up
the vittles for the mill-hands can't make sech biscuits as mine.
Stop now, and hab some, won't yer ?"

" Thank ye, Pallas, I ain't hungry," was the melancholy
reply — melancholy when proceeding from a heart}-, hard-
working young man, who ought to have been hungry at that
hour of the day. He turned away, and without even going
to the cabin-door to inquire of Mr. Wilde as he had proposed,
struck into the pine-woods back of the garden-patch.

iS ALICE WILDE.

CHAPTER II.

PALLAS AND SATURN.

Supper was over, and David Wilde was cutting with his
jack-knife the strings of several packages which had accom-
panied him on his trip back from Center City, where he had
disposed of his raft. His guest sat upon a wooden settle, as
much interested as the others in the proceedings, though his
. tyes were fixed mostly upon the happy girl, who, with all of
her sex's love of finery, was upon her knees on the floor,
assisting, with smiling eyes and eager fingers, at the pleasant
task of bringing forth the contents of these packages. A dark-
blue dress of the finest merino, a rich shawl, and some pretty
laces for collars and ruffles rewarded her search. There was
another package which was all her own, with which she was
equally delighted ; it was made up of a dozen of books, whose
titles she eagerly read before she continued her explorations.

" Here's a dress Mr. Moore picked out for you," said the
raftsman, maliciously, unfolding a gorgeous red and yellow
calico.

"But I hadn't seen you, you know," returned Philip
coloring.

At this moment Pallas, who had an eye upon the bundles,
came in on a pretence of clearing off the table.

" Come and look at my beautiful presents, Pallas," cried
her young mistress.

" You've got little les'n an angel fer a fadder, my dear chile,"
ejaculated that personage, catching sight of the calico from the
corner of her eye while admiring the merino.

Alice looked up into the rough sun-burnt face of her fathtr
with a smile ; the idea of his being an angel was not so ludic
rous to her as it was to their guest.

" Here's somethin' to help you along with yer sewing," con
tinued David, taking a little box containing a gold thimhl
from his jacket-pocket. " See if it fits," and he placed it on
the little fair hand.

" It sets to your finger like a cup to an acorn," exclaimed

40-TO-MEETING BOOTS. 13

Pallas. " Thar's none like masser to tell per-cieely what a
person wants and is a wishin' fer," and again her covert glance
sought the calico.

"Sartainly, old girl; no doubt," chuckled the raftsman.
*If that's the case, jist take them handkerchiefs and that
dress-pattern and give 'em to Saturn. Tou can keep the vest
and the tobacker and the boots yerself, and especially the
trowsers — you've allers worn 'em !"

" Laws, masser, ef I Tiadri't, things would a gone to rack
and ruin long ago. Dat nigger of mine no use, but to sleep
hisself to deaf. He's a great cross to me, Saturn is," and with
a profusion of smiles and thanks she carried off her booty to
the kitchen, graciously dispensing his share to her " ole man,"
and condescending to be unusually affable.

" Ef we only had a camp-meetin' to go to now," she said,
spreading out the new jacket and trowsers beside the calico.
" It's four yeer, come nex' monf, since we went to dat meetin'
down de riber. I declar' it's jes' like de heathen fer decent
culled pussons not to have any place to holler Glory, and
show der new clo'es.

" I'd like to go to meetin' wid dese boots," remarked her
spouse, looking down at the immense pair into which he had
Bqueezed his feet.

" Ef you did, all I can say is, dar' wouldn' be no room fer
anybody else dar'," returned Pallas, giving way, by mere force
of habit, to her custom of snubbing her companion.

" Wha' fer ?" inquired Saturn.

" No matter, ef yer don't know. My ! my !" — hopelessly —
" what a fool you is !"

" Dat's so, wife ;" was the humble reply, " but," picking up
courage at the sight of his new rig, " mebbe when I get my
new jacket on, I'll know more."

" You'd bettar put it on quick, den, and nebbar take it off."

When her dishes were washed, Pallas took the calico in
her lap and sat down.

" I've a sense," she said, in a low voice, " dat things is goin
to happen."

"Wha' fer?"

" I haven't had such a sense fer years," she continued, to»
preoccupied to administer her customary rebuke. " And when

14 ALICE WILDE.

I've a sense, it alters comes to suthin' — it never fails. I haven't
had such feelin's since missus died. 'Pears to me dat young
gentleum looks like missus' family. And it's de same name-
sums, isn't it ?"

" Berry," replied Saturn, at random, lost in the study of Ms
"eet ; " clem boots is beauties."

" I dunno what masser brought him here fer, he's alters been
so keerful. He tole me 'twas a pardner in de steam saw-mill
dat take3 his lumber off his han's ; a young storekeeper in
Center City now, though he use to be a lawyer in New York
— bress it ! it's a, long time since I sot eyes on dat city now.
Our fus' masser, Mortimer Moore, usin to invite no shop-
keepers to Ms house. My ! my ! but he was a mighty proud
man, and dat's what made all de trouble. Dem was grand
times, wid all cte serbents and de silber — never tought I cud
come to dis — but I promised missus, when she died, I'd stan'
by her chile, and I shall stand by her, long as dcr's any bref
left in dis ole body— brcss her! She's growing up jes' as
han'some as ever her mudcter was, and she's got her ways;
and as for manners — hi ! hi ! folks might larf at the idea of
ole Pallas learnin' manners to her missus, bur, (■'" ain't nobody
knows better how table ought to be set and sarbed, and things
to be done, than my dear chile now, dis minit. Ef masser
will keep her, like de children of Israel, forty years in de wil-
derness, she sbail be a lady for all dat, bress her, and a Chris-
tian lady, too ! She knows all de bes' part of de psalms by
heart, now ; and she can sing hymns like a cherubim. Some-
times I mos' think she's got one of dem golden harps in her
hand. If dat ole fool ain't asleep. Saturn!" kicking his
shins, " wake up yer, and go to bed — immejetly !"

Saturn had a discouraging time getting his new boots off in
the sleepy state which had come upon him; but this being at
last accomplished, and he safely lodged in the bed, which took
up the greater portion of Pallas' " settin'-room," off her kitch-
en, she stole out to the corner of the house to "spy out th«
land," in Bible language, which, to her, sheltered the deed
from opprobrium. Pallas was no mischief-making listener
she considered herself entitled to know all that transpired in
the family, whose secrets she kept, and whose welfare she had
in her heart.

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON. 15

"My! ray! they make a pretty pictur' sittin' dar' in de
light ob de moon," she thought, peeping at the group, now-
gathered outside of the door, enjoying the glory of a most
brilliant August moon. The young stranger was telling some
story of foreign adventure, his fine face and animated gestures
showing well in the pure light, while the old raftsman smoked
his pipe to keep away musquitoes, as he said— though they
were not particularly troublesome in that neighborhood — and
Alice sat on the step at his feet, her arms folded over his knee,
her eager, girlish face lifted to the story-teller.

" He sartainly belongs to our family of Moores, ef he ain't
no nearer than a forty-second cousin," whispered Pallas to
herself. " Masser don't know 'em, root and branch, as well as
I do, else he'd see it right away How that pickaninny is a
a watchin' of him talk ! Laws ! nobody knows what their
doing in dis yere worl', or we'd all act different."

As she stood there, taking observations, she thought she
saw a person in the shade of the great elm on the bank ; and
not being afraid of any thing but "gosstesses" and "sperits,"
she went back to the kitchen for a bucket, as an excuse Cor
going down to the river and finding out who it was.

" Ef it's that yer young Perkins, won't I let him know what
a fool he's making of hisself— he, indeed ! Gorry ! I'll give a
scolding 'at'll las' him his lifetime." But she had no oppor-
tunity of venting her indignation, as the form, whosever ii
was, slipped down the bank, and ran away along the wet sand,
taking shelter behind a ledge of rock, before she could recog-
nize it.

" My ! my ! dis ole bucket full of silber," she ejaculated, as
she lifted it out of the river, glittering in the moonlight.
" Dis yere ribber looks lubly as de stream of life dat's flowin'
round de streets ob Paradise, to-night;" and the good old
creature stood watching the burnished ripples. The rush of
waters and the murmur of the pine-forest were sweet even to
her ears.

" It's a bad night for young folks to be sittin' out-o'-doors,"
Bhe reflected, shaking her yellow turban suggestively, as she
tooked at the two by the cabin-door.

But let us go back a little way with our story.

14 ALICH WILDB.

CHAPTER III.

REJECTED ADDRESSES.

Through the spacious lengths of a suite of richly-furnished
rooms, a woman was wandering, with that air of nervous rest-
lessness which betokens a mind ill at ease. The light, steal-
ing in soft tints through +he curtains, fell upon many pictures
and objects of taste and art, and all that lavish richness of
plenishing to which wealthy Gothamites are prone— but upon
nothing so beautiful as the mistress of them all, who now
moved from place to place, lifting a costly toy here, pausing
before a picture there, but really interested in neither.

" Virginia !"

Her cousin Philip had come in through the library so
silently that she was unaware of his presence until he spoke,
although it was waiting for him which had made her so
uneasy.

" Well, Philip ?"

She had started when he spoke her name, but recovered
her haughty self-possession immediately.

" Sit down, please, on this sofa. I can not talk to you
when you are standing. You look too cold and too impe-
rious. I have come to-day for your answer, Virginia."

They sat upon the sofa together, he turning so as to read
her face, which was bent down as she played with the diamond
ring upon her ringer. She looked cool and quiet enough to
dampen the ardor of her lover ; but he was so absorbed in his
own feelings that he could not and would not understand it.

" Speak, Virginia ! I can not bear this suspense."

Still she hesitated ; she Weed him too well to take any pleas-
ure in giving him pain, frivolous coquette though she was.

" I have questioned my heart closely, Philip, as you bade
me," she began after a few moments, " and I have satisfied
myself that I can never be happy as the wife of a poor maa.

LOVB IN A COTTAGE. 17

" Then you do not love me ! Love does not put itself in
the scales and demand to be balanced with gold."

" But gold is very necessary to its welfare and long life. No
Philip, I do not know that I love you — perhaps I do not—
since I am not willing to make this sacrifice. I certainly
think better of you than of any other living man, except my
father ; I would rather marry you than any other man, if you
had the wealth necessary to support me in the station for
which only I am fitted. A young man, with nothing to rely
upon but the profession of the law, in a great city like this,
must expect to wait some time before he can pour many
honors and much wealth into the lap of the woman he loves."

" You are sarcastic, Virginia !"

" No, only practical. My father is not so rich as in days
gone by. His fortune has dwindled until it is barely sufficient
to keep up the house in the old style. If I would still pre-
serve the family pride, still rule queen of the circle I have
brought around me, I must marry rich."

" And for this you can resign a love like mine."

"It is my nature, Philip — born in me, cherished in me.
My father, I know, would not listen to the match, as highly
as he esteems you. I had a sister, a woman when I was a
child — you remember her, do you not ? she married against
his will, married poor, and tried this ' love in a cottage ' senti-
ment— he never forgave her, and she never prospered ; she is
dead, poor thing, and I do not care to emulate her."

" Humph ! I am to understand that your father then rears
his children as slaves to be sold to the highest bidder— that
you hold yourself ready for the market ?"

" Don't provoke me, Philip." The black eyes were fixed
upon him haughtily.

"Forgive me, Virginia. I am half-mad just now, you
know. You can not say that you have not encouraged me."

" Perhaps I have — shown you the affection of a cousin. I
have felt as if you were one of the family. I migb even have
felt a still closer interest, had I allowed myself. But I am,
what you never will be — prudent. I may yet see some one
whom I an really respect and love, who has also the fortune
you lack ; if not, I shall accept some one for glory's sake, and
let the love go ! Don't look so scornful, Phil. I have beauty

18 tXICE WILDK.

fashion, pride of place, family, every thing but the means
wherewith to set these off magnificently ; and this has made
me ambitious. Dear Philip, much as I like you, I could never
ne contented to wait your slow promotion."

"Prudence is very commendable, Virginia, Its maxims
fall with double force from lips as beautiful as yours. I wil>
try to learn it. I, a man, upon whom such cold duties are
supposed most naturally to devolve, will be taught by you, a
soft, tender woman, who looks as if made for the better pur-
pose of loving and teaching love. Farewell ! when you see
me again, perhaps I shall rival you in prudence."

" You are not going away, cousin Philip ?" He was already
opening the door into the hall, as she followed him, and
caught his hand.

" Oh, yes, I am. Since only rich men can possess the
happiness such gentle creatures have it in their power to
bestow, I must make haste after wealth," and he looked down
bitterly at the proud girl over whose face was coming a faint
expression of remorse and relenting.

" Shall I not hear from you ?" she asked, quite humbly.

" No ; not until I am in a fair way to achieve that which
will recommend me to your disinterested affection /"

He withdrew his hand from her clasp, and went out with a
quick, resounding step which told of the firmness of his reso-
lution. The girl who had rejected him sank down in the
nearest seat. She had never seen him look more — as a woman
is proud to have a man look — handsome, self-reliant, determined,
than in the hour of his disappointment. Two or three tears
trickled through her jeweled fingers; she shook them off im-
patiently.

" He is a man who would never have shamed my choice,"
she whispered. " But I have decided for the best. I know
my own disposition ; I should fret at the chains which limited
my power. And I am used to every indulgence. I am self-
ish. Poor Phil ! if somebody would present you with »
check for half-a-million, I'd marry you to-morrow."

In the mean time Philip Moore, all the dregs stirred up from
the bottom of the fountain in his usually transparent sou.,
hurried to the office which he had just set up in Wall-street
There, as if in answer to the wish which had been aroused, he

GOIKG WES-.. 19

found a letter iroin a friend who had emigrated westward three
years previously, forsaking the law for speculations in pine-
lands and lumber, merchandise, etc. He was doing well, was
getting rich in seven-league strides, had married a pretty
western girl, was happy, had gone to housekeeping, wanted a
partner in business as well as domestic affairs — recommended
Philip to accept the chance — a few thousand dollars would be
all the capital required.

Philip had seven thousand dollars in stocks ; he sold out,
shook off the dust from his feet as lie left the great metropolis,
and answered his friend's letter in person, in less than a fort-
night.

Virginia Moore missed the convenient escort, the constant
attentions, and the profound worship of her high-hearted
cousin ; but a rich Spaniard, ugly and old, was come into the
market, and she was among the bidders. Let us leave Vir-
ginia Moore, and return to that western wilderness, where a
certain little girl looks lovelier, in her blue-gingham dress and
wild-flower wreath, than the other in all the family diamonda

20 ALICE WILDK.

CHAPTER IV.

BEN PERKINS.

The day after her father's return, Alice Wilde sat down to
try her new thimble in running up the skirt of her merino
dress. The frock which she wore, and all her others, proba-
bly, were fashioned in the style of twenty years ago —
Short under the arms ; a belt at the waist ; low in the neck ;
full, puffed, short sleeves; narrow skirt, and no crinoline.
Her profuse hair, when it was not allowed to fall in a golden
torrent around her neck, was looped up in the quaint style
which marked the fashion of her dress. She looked like the
portrait, come to life, of some republican belle and beauty of
long ago. Quite unconscious that this ancient style had been
superseded by the balloons of to-day, she measured off the
three short breadths which, when hemmed, would leave her
pretty ankles exposed, even as they now, with the slippered
feet, peeped from beneath her gingham.

If Philip Moore had understood the mantua-maker's art,
and had possessed " patterns" of the latest mode, he would
not have instructed his hostess in any changes, she looked so
picturesque and quaint as she was. But he did not let her
sew very steadily that day. He wanted to explore the sur-
roundings of the cabin, and she was his ready, intelligent
guide.

They went back into the forest, through which thundered,
ever and anon, the crash of a falling tree ; for many men were
busy cutting timber for another raft, on which, at its comply
tion, Philip was to return to Center City. His business would
not have detained him more than three or four days, but he
was in no haste ; he wanted to hunt and fish a little, and he
liked the novelty of the idea of floating down the river on a
raft of logs in company with a score of rough fellows. Al-
though David Wilde sawed up some of his timber himself, his
old-fashioned mill was not equal to the supply, and he sent

KID-GLOVB ABIBTOCRACY. 21

the surplus down to the steam saw-mills, one of which waa
owned by Philip and his partner.

It called forth all his affability to conquer the shyness of
his pretty guide, who at last dared to look full into his face
with those brilliant blue eyes, and to tell him where the
brooks made the sweetest music, where the fawns came often-
est to drink, where the violets lingered the latest, and where
there was a grape-vine f.wing.

Both of them looked very happy when they came in, just
in time to meet Mr. Wilde at the supper-table, who had been
at the mill all day. He did not seem in such good spirits.
Some new thought troubled him. His keen, gray eyee scanned
the countenance of his child, as if searching for something
hitherto undiscovered ; and then turned suspiciously to the
stranger, to mark if he, too, held the same truth. For the
first time it occurred to him, that his " cub," his pet, was no
longer a little girl — that he might have done something fatally
foolish in bringing that fine city aristocrat to his cabin. Had
he not always hated and despised these dandified caricatures
of men ? — despised their vanity, falsehood, and affectation ? —
hated their vices, their kid-gloves, their perfumed handker-
chiefs, and their fashionable nonsense ? Yet, pleased with
one of them, and on a mere matter of business, he had, with-
out the wisdom of a fool, much less of a father, brought one
of that very class to his house. How angry he was with him-
self his compressed lip alone revealed, as he sharply eyed his
guest. Yet the laws of hospitality were too sacred with him
to allow of his showing any rudeness to his guest, as a means
of getting rid of him.

Unconscious of the bitter jealousy in her father's heart,
Alice was as gay as a humming-bird. She had never been
happier. We are formed for society ; children are charmed
with children, and youth delights in youth. Alice had been
ignorant of this sweet want, until she learned it now, by hav-
ing it gratified. For, although she had passed pleasant words
with such young men as chanced to be employed by hei
father, they had never seemed to her like companions, and she
naturally adopted the reserve which her father also used with
them. His cabin was his castle. No one came there famil-
iarly, except upon invitation. The " hands" were all fed and

22 ALICE WILDE.

lodged in a house by themselves, near the mill. Tht e'loom of
the host gradually affected the vivacity of the others ; and the
Thole household retired early to rest.

The next day, Philip set off to the mill with Mr. Wikle,
carrying on his shoulder the excellent rifle of the latter, as he
proposed, after business was over, to make a search for deer,
now nearly driven away from that locality by the sound of
the ax in those solitudes once so deep and silent.

" Tell Aunt Pallas I'll bring her a haunch of venison for
supper," lie said gayly to the young girl, touching his straw
hat with a grace that quite confused her.

She looked after them wistfully as they went away. She
felt lonely : her sewing fatigued her ; the sun was too hot to
go out on the water ; she didn't know what to do. liven her
new books failed for once to keep her interested many hours.
When Pallas looked for her to help pick over berries to dry,
she was not to be found. She had sought that delightful
refuge of early youth — the garret ; which in this instance was
but a loft over the main story, reached by a ladder, and sel-
dom resorted to by any one, except when the raftsman stored
away a bear-skin, a winter's store of nuts, or something of the
kind. To-day Alice felt powerfully attracted toward a certain
trunk which had stood in that garret ever since she could re-
member. It was always locked ; she had never seen it open ;
and did not know its contents. Now, for a wonder, the key was
in the lock; she never thought of there being any thing wrong
'n the act, as she had never heard the trunk mentioned, and
had never been forbidden access to it, and lifting the lid, she
sat down beside it and began an examination of its mysteries.
Lifting up a napkin spread over the top, she was met by a
i'ovely face, looking up at her from the ivory upon which il
was so exquisitely painted. The breath died upon her lips.

" It must be my mother's ; how very beautiful she was-
try mother !"

Hox tears rushed up into her eyes at this life-like vision of
a being she did not remember, of whom old Pallas often
epoke, but whom her father seldom mentioned — never, save in
the most intimate moments of their association. She was
sorry she had opened the trunk, realizing at once that if her
father had desired her to know of the miniature ho would

DEER-HUNTING. ■*>

have skown it to her years ago ; she had a glimpse of a white-
silk dress, some yellow lace, a pair of white-silk slippers, and
long white-kid gloves, but she would not gratify the intense
curiosity and interest which she felt. She remembered hear-
ing her father descend from the garret late in the preceding
night ; and she guessed now the purpose of his visit.

An impulse was given to her thoughts which drove away
her restless mood ; she retreated from the loft, and set very
quietly to work helping Pallas with the blackberries. She
was sittins: in the kitchen-door, an apron on, and a huge
bowl in her lap, when Philip Moore came through the pines,
dragging after him a young deer which he had slain. Pallas
ivas on a bench outside the shanty, and it was at her feet the
hunter laid his trophy.

" Bress you, masser Moore, I'se mighty glad you went a
lnintin'. Miss Alice she laugh and say de deer needn't be
afraid of you, 'cause you was a city gentleum, but I toP her
she didn't know nuffln' about it. I was afeard you'd get
tired of white-fish and salmon, and bacon and fowls, — dis
ven'sen jes' de meat I want."

" Well, Aunt Pallas, I shall claim one of your best pies as
my reward," said the amateur hunter, laughing. " But little
Alice here mustn't think no one can do any thing right except
foresters and lumbermen."

" Oh, I don't !" exclaimed she, blushing. " I think you do
every thing beautifully, Mr. Moore, that you've been brought
up to do, you know — but shooting deer — they don't do that in
cities, do they?"

" Not exactly in cities ; but there are wild woods near
enough New York yet for young men to have a chance at
gaining that accomplishment. I suppose you wouldn't trust
me to take you out sailing, to-morrow, would you ?"

" If she would, yer couldn't do it, for I want the boat my-
self. Captain Wilde's goin' to send me down to the pint with it.'-

Mr. Moore looked up in surprise at the speaker, who had jusj
come up from the river, and whose looks and tones were still
ruder than his words.

" Hi, Ben ! yer as surly as a bar," spoke up Pallas ; " yer
haven't a grain of perliteness in yer body," she added, in a
lower tone.

34 ALICH WILDa

" I leaves perlitenesa to them as is wimmen enough to want
it," answered Ben, throwing back a glance of defiance and
contempt at the innocent stranger, as he stepped into the
shanty. " I want them new saws as came home with the
tapt'n."

" There's somebody that looks upon me in the same light
you do," laughed Philip, when the youth had secured the
saws and departed.

" Oh, Mr. Moore, you don't know how I look upon you !"
she exclaimed, earnestly ; neither did he, any more than he
knew how the fate of that black-eyed, heavy-browed mill-
hand was to be mixed and mingled with his own.

He admired Alice Wilde as he would have done any other
pretty and singular young creature ; but he never thought of
loving her ; she was a child in his eyes, ignorant and uncul-
tivated in many things, though always graceful and refined ;
a child, who would be out of place in any other sphere except
that peculiar one in which she now moved. He did not
guess that in her eyes he was a hero, almost supernatural,
faultless, glorious — such as an imaginative girl who had seen
nothing of the world, but who had read many poems and
much fiction, would naturally create out of the first material
thrown in her way.

No ! all through that happy fortnight of his visit he talked
with her freely, answering her eager questions about the
world from which she was so secluded, roamed the wood!
with her, sailed the river, played his flute, sang favorite love
songs, and all without reflecting upon the deathless impressior
he was making. Keen eyes were upon him, and saw nothinj,
to justify censure ; he would have laughed at the idea of that
little wild girl falling in love with him, if he had thought of it
at all ; but he did not think of it ; sometimes he frolicked with
her, as if they were both children ; and sometimes he kindly
took upon himself the pleasant task of teaching her in matters
about which she showed an interest. He was touched by her
beauty and innocence ; and was extremely guarded in her
presence not to let a hint of evil be breathed upon that young
soul — her father, Pallas, all who approached her, seemed nat-
urally to pay her purity the same deference.

The raft for which Philip was waiting was now in readi-

A. DECLAIUTIOH OB" LOVB. 25

ness, and was to commence its drifting journey upon the next
day. Alice had fled away into the pine-woods, after dinner,
to anticipate, with dread, her coming loneliness; for her
father was also to accompany it, and would be absent nearly
three weeks. Her footsteps wandered to a favorite spot,
where the grape-vine swing had held her in its arms, many
and many a frolic hour. She sat down in it, swinging herself
slowly to and fro. Presently a footfall startled her from her
abstraction, and, looking up, she saw Ben Perkins coming
along the path with a cage in his hand, of home manufacture,
containing a gorgeous forest-bird which he had captured.

" I reckon I needn't go no further, Miss Alice," he said •
•'I war a bringin' this bird to see if you'd be so agreeable as
to take it. I cotched it, yesterday, in the wood,"

" Oh, Ben, how pretty it is !" she cried, quickly brushing
away her tears, that he might not guess what she had been
crying about.

" It sings like any thing. It's a powerful fine singer, Miss
Alice — I thought mebbe 't would be some comfort to ye, seein'
yer about to lose that flute that's been turnin yer head so."
" What do you mean ? — you speak so roughly, Ben."
" I know I ain't particularly smooth-spoken ; but I mean
what I say, which is more 'n some folks do. Some folks
thinks it good sport to be telling you fine fibs, I've no doubt."
" Why do you wish to speak ill of those of whom you have
no reason to, Ben ? It isn't generous."

" But I hate reason — 0 Alice, you don't know how
much !" he set the bird-cage down, and came closer to her
" I've got suthin' to say that I can't keep back no longer.
Won't you set down 'side of me on this log ?"

" I'd rather stand, Ben," she said, drawing back as he was
about to take her hand.

The quivering smile upon his lip when he asked the ques-
tion changed to a look which half frightened her, at her ges-
ture of refusal.

" You didn't object to settin' by that town chap ; you sol
here on this very log with him, for I seen you. Cuss him, and
bis fine clothes, I say !"

" I can not listen to you, Ben, if you use such language ; I
don't know what's the matter with you to-day," and she turned
to eo home.

26 ALICE WILDE.

" I'll tell you what's the matter, Alice Wilde," and he
caught her hand almost fiercely. "I can't keep still any
ionger and see that feller hangin' 'round. I didn't mean to
ipeak this long time yet, but that stranger's driven me crazy
Do you 'spose I kin keep quiet and see him smirking and
oowin' and blowin' on that blamed flute, around you; and
you lookin' at him as if yer couldn't take yer eyes off ? Do
you s'pose I kin keep quiet and see him making a simpleton
of the purtiest girl that ever growd ? You needn't wince-
it's true ; jist as soon as he'd got away from here he'd forget
all about you, or only think of you to laugh at your hoosier
ways with some proud lady as fine as himself."

" Oh, I am afraid it's too true !" burst forth Alice, involun-
tarily.

" Yer may bet yer life on that, Alice Wilde ! Or, at the
best, he'd take yer away from yer own old father as loves the
ground you tread, and try and make a lady of you, and never
let you speak to your own flesh and blood agin. While I—
I wouldn't do nuthin' but what yer father wanted ; I'd settle
down side of him, work for him, see to things, and take the
care off his mind when he got old. Yer father hates them
proud peacocks, Alice — he hates 'em, and so do I ! I know
he'd ruther have me. Say yes, do now, that's a good girl."

" I don't understand you, Ben," said Alice, coldly, trying to
pass, for she was troubled and wanted to get away.

" I'll tell you then," he said, " I want you to marry me,
Alice. I've been thinking about it these two years — night and
day, night and day."

" Why, Ben," cried the startled child, "/ never thought of
it — never ! and I can not now. Father will be very angry
with you. Let go of my hand ; I want to go home."

" You ain't a little girl any longer, Alice Wilde, and I guess
yer father '11 find it out. He may be mad for a spell ; but
ae'll get over it ; and when he comes to think of the chances
of his dyin' and leavin' yer alone, he'll give his conset
Come, Alice, say yes, do, now ?"

The intense eagerness of his manner made her tremble, fro:
sympathy, but she looked into his blazing eyes firmly, as sh
replied, " Never \ so long as I live, never ! And you must nc
speak of it again, unless you want to be discharged from — "

" Don't you threaten me, Miss Alice. I ain't the stuff to b&
threatened. If I'd have said what I've said this day, three
weeks ago, you wouldn't have been so mighty cool. Not
that I think I'm good enough for ye— there ain't the man
livin' that's that ; but I'm as good as some as thinks them-
selves better— and I won't be bluffed off by any broadcloth coat.
I've loved you ever since you were a little girl, and fell in the
mill-pond onct, and I fished ye out. I've loved ye lLore years
than he's seen ye weeks, and I won't be bluffed off. Jes' sc
sure as I live, that man shall never marry you, Alice "Wilde."

" He never thought of it ; and it hurts me, Ben, to have
you speak of it. Let me go now, this instant."

She pulled her hand out of his, and hurried away, forgetful
of the bird he had given her.

Love, rage, and despair were in the glance he cast after
her; but when, a few moments later, as he made his way
back toward the mill, he passed Philip Moore, who gave him
a pleasant, careless nod, hate — the dangerous hate of envy,
jealousy, and ignorance, darkened his swarthy brow.

Poor Alice, nervous almost to sobbing, pursued her home-
ward way. She had never thought of marriage except as a
Paradise in some far, Arcadian land of dreams which she had
fashioned from books and the instincts of her young heart ;
and now to have the idea thrust upon her by this rude, deter-
mined fellow, who doubtless considered himself her equal,
shocked her as a bird is shocked and hurt by the rifle's
clamor. And if this young man thought himself a fit husband
for her, perhaps others thought the same — perhaps her father
would wish her to accept him, some time in the far future —
perhaps Philip — ah, Philip ! how almost glorified he looked
to her vision as at that moment he came out of the forest
shadows into the path, his straw-hat in his hand, and the
wiud tossing his brown hair.

" Here is the little humming-bird, at last ! was it kind 01

her 10 fly away by herself on this last afternoon of my stay ?''

How gay his voice, how beaming his smile, while she was

*o sad ! she felt it and grew sadder still. She tried to reply

as gayly, but her lip trembled.

" "What's the matter with the little "Wilde-rose ?" he asked,
kindly looking down into the suffused eyes.

28 ALICE WILDS.

" I've been thinking how very lonely I shall be. My father
is going away, too, you know, and I shall have no one but
good old Pallas."

"And that handsome young man I just saw parting from
you," he said, mischievously, looking to see her blush and
smile.

" Oh, Mr. Moore, is it possible you think I could care for
him ?" she asked, with a sudden air of womanly pride which
vanished in a deep blush the next instant.

" Well, I don't know ; you are too good for him," he an-
swered, frankly, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

An expression of pain swept over Alice's face.

" I know, Mr. Moore, how you must regard me ; and I can
not blame you for it. I know that I am ignorant — a foolish,
ignorant child, — that my dress is odd, my manner awkward,
— that the world, if it should see me, would laugh at me— that
my mind is uncultivated, — but oh, Mr. Moore, you do not
know how eager I am to learn — how hard I should study 1 I
wish my father would send me away to school."

" That would just spoil your sweet, peculiar charms, little
Alice."

He smoothed her hair soothingly, as he would have done a
child's ; but something in her tone had put a new thought in
his mind ; he looked at her earnestly as she blushed beneath
this first slight caress which he had ever given her. " Can it
be so ?" he asked himself; and in his eyes the young girl sud-
denly took more womanly proportions. " How very— hofl
exquisitely beautiful she is now, with the soul glowing through
aer face. Shall I ever again see a woman such as this— pure
as an infant, loving, devoted, unselfish, and so beautiful?"
Another face, haughty, clear-cut, with braids of perfumed
black hair, arose before his mental vision, and took place he-
side this sweet, troubled countenance. One so unmoved, so
determined, even in the moment of giving bitter pain — this
other so confiding, so shy, so full of every girlish beauty.
Philip was touched — almost to saying something which he
might afterward regret ; but he was a Moore, and he had his
pride and his prejudices, stubborn as old Mortimer Moore's,
nearly. These hardened his heart against the sentiment he
saw trembling through that eloquent countenance.

A WILDK-KOSH. *"

" You are but a little girl yet, and will have plenty of
chance to grow wise," he continued playfully. " This pretty
Wilde-rose ' needs not the foreign aid of ornament.' When *
come again, I hope to find her just as she is now— unless she
tiiould have become the bride of that stalwart forester."

" Then you are coming again ?" she asked, ignoring the
cruel kindness of the latter part of his speech, and thinking
only of that dim future possibility of again seeing and hearing
him, again being in his presence, no matter how indifferent he
might be to her.

For Alice Wilde, adoring him as no man ever deserved to
be adored, still, in her forest simplicity, called not her passion
love, nor cherished it from any hope of its being reciprocated.
No ; she herself considered herself unworthy of the thought
of one so much more accomplished, so much wiser than her-
self. Her's was

" The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night' for the morrow ;"

and now that there was a chance in the future for her to burn
her white wings still more cruelly, she grew a shade happier.

" I have business with your father which will bring me
here again, perhaps this fall, in October, certainly, in the
spring. What shall I bring you when I come again, Alice ?
You've been a kind hostess, and I owe you many happy
Lours. I should like to make you some trifling return."

She looked up in his face sadly, thinking she should lik'
to ask him to remember her, but she dared not trust herself.

" If you will select some books — such as you think I ought
to study, my father will buy them for me."

" Don't you love jewelry and such pretty trifles as other
girls seek after ?"

" I really don't know ; I've no doubt I could cultivate suck
a liking," she replied, with some of her native archness.

" I wouldn't try very hard— you're better without," he said,
pressing a light kiss on her forehead ; and the two went slow-
ly home, walking more silently than was their wont.

Pallas saw them, as they came up through the garden, and
gave them a scrutinizing look which did not seem to bo satis-
factory

30 ALICE WILD&

" Dat clrl'.v.': troubles jes' began," she murmured to herself.
" Ef dese yer ole arms could hide her away from ebery sor-
row, Pallas would be happy. But dey can't. Things happen
as sure as the worl' ; aud girls will be girls — it's in em ; jes'
as sartin as it's in eggs to be chickens, and acorns to be oaka.
Hi ! hi !"

TERRIBLE NTZTf»=c

31

CHAPTER V.

AN APPALLING VISITOR.

One bright September day, after David Wilde had been
gone about a week with hi8 raft, a wood-cutter came to the
cabin with bad news. He informed Alice that the woods
were on fire two or three miles back, and that the wind was
driving the fire in a broad belt of a mile wide directly toward
the house ; that if the wind did not subside with the setting
of the sun, nothing could preserve the place from destruction
by the middle of the next day. Alice had been sitting at the
window, thinking how delicious that soft, dry wind was ; but
now she prayed with all her heart that it might speedily die.
It was yet many hours to sunset ; and she, with Pallas, went
into the forest until they could see the fire, and were in some
danger from the drifting sparks. The foresters shook their
heads and told her to be prepared for the worst; Pallas
groaned and prayed as if she had been at a camp-meeting ;
but Alice, although she trembled before the mighty power of
he conflagration, endeavored not to lose her presence of mind.
" I shall hope for the best," she said to the men, " but shall
be prepared for the worst. Go to the mill and bring round
fcy the river all the skiffs you can muster — there are two or
three, are there not ? They will be ready by evening, and if
the wind does not change, or go down, by that time, we will
try and save the furniture by means of the boats. Come, Pal-
las, let us go home and pack up the smaller things."

"Home!" The word sounded sweet, when destruction
hovered so near ; but Alice had a brave heart ; she would
hink of nothing now but of being equal to the emergency ;
her calmness had a salutary effect upon the characteristic
excitability of her sable attendant, who followed her back in
ouite a composed and serviceable mood.

Moving quietly about, putting her precious books into

83 ALICE WILDE.

packages, and getting into movable shape all those little
articles of household use which become so dear from associa-
tion, a looker-on would hardly have guessed how anxiously
the young girl waited for sunset — how earnestly she wished
that her father had been at home.

" My ! my ! dat nigger of mine is a wusser fool 'an ever,"
said Pallas, as she bustled about like an embodied storm;
" jes' see him, Miss Alice ; he's went and put on his bes' clo'es,
and dar' he stands, nebber doin' a single ting, but jes' holding
dem new boots of his."

" What are you dressed up for, Saturn," called Alice, laugh
ing, in spite of her anxiety, to find that he had made provision
for that which was dearest to him— his new suit would be
wed if he was, and if he perished, it would share his fate.

" Oh, missus," he replied, looking foolish, " it's the easiest
way to carry 'em."

"Better put your boots on, also; then you'll have your
hands to work with," suggested Alice.

" Jes' so, missus ; I never tought of dat ;" and on went the
ooots, after which Saturn was ready to get as much in the
way as possible.

At sunset, the boats, consisting of two little skiffs which
would hold but small freightage, and one larger boat which
would accomodate the heavier pieces of furniture, were moor-
ed under the stately old elm which had so long stood sentinel
wer that forest home. Three or four men, among whom was
fieri Perkins, held themselves in readiness to give the necessary
assistance.

The sun went down in a clear sky ; there were no clouds to
threaten a wished-for rain ; but that cold, firm wind which
sometimes blows unceasingly three days at a time, in the
autumn months, rose higher and higher. Thex-e was no moon,
and as twilight deepened into night, the thick smoke which
hung above the earth rendered the darkness intense; and
occasionally when heavy volumes of smoke dropped lower
toward the earth, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Pallas prepared supper for all, with a strong cup of coffee
to keep off drowsiness ; and no one retired to bed that night.
Shortly after midnight the fire traveled within sight ; the roai
of the conflagration swelled and deepened until it was like the

THE FOREST ON fclRE. 88

flashing of a thousand seas ; the hot breath of the flames
rfroused the wind, until it rushed in fury directly toward the
cabin. Light flashes of flame would run from tree-top to tree-
'op, while farther back was a solid cone of fire— trunks fronj
which all the foliage and lesser branches had fallen, stretching
Iheir glowing arms across the darkness, towering up against
the starless background. Frequently these fiery columns
would crumble, with crashes scarcely heard through the con-
tinuous roar, sending up a fitful shower of sparks to be whirled
an high by the rushing currents of air.

Fascinated by the beautiful, appalling scene, Alice sat on
the bank of the river, wrapped in a shawl, from which her
pale, excited face shone like a star, kindling the enthusiasm
af the rude men about her to do something in her service. As
for Ben, he scarcely looked at the fire— his eyes were upon
the girl.

"It's no use," he said to her, about two o'clock in the
morning, " waitin' any longer. That Are will be on this very
Bpot by break of day. The wind's a blowin' a perfect gale.
Ain't you cold, Miss Alice ?"

" No, no — not at all. If you think it the only way, then
let us begin. My father's desk, with his papers, stands in his
bedroom. See to that first, Ben, and then the other things."

It did not take long for the active fellows engaged to clear
the cabin of all its contents ; every thing was put into the
loats— and then, as Ben said, " it was high time to clear out."
The smoke was suffocating, and sparks and small branches
ot burning trees were beginning to fall around. Saturn ana
Pallas were safely stowed in the largest boat, while Alice
paddled out into the stream in her own tiny canoe. The
track of the fire was a mile in width ; but the mill was not
threatened by it, nor much troubled by the smoke, the wind
carrying it in another direction. The house then occupied by
the mill-hands must be the present shelter of the captain's
family.

Down the river, in the full glare of the conflagration, floated
the little convoy. The smoke was not so dense about them
now ; it hung high above, and rolled in dark billows far be-
yond. The stream was crimson with the reflection, and the
faces of the party looked pallid in the lurid glare— always

Zi ALICE WILDK

excepting those two sable faces, turned, with awe and dread,
toward that sublime picture of devastation.

Suddenly Alice, who was in advance, dropped back

" I must return to the house," she cried, as she came along
aide of the boat containing Ben and the old servants.

" No, you mus'n't," shouted Ben ; " it's too late. It's getting
mighty warm here now ; and them flyin' branches '11 hit ye."

" I can't help it," replied Alice, firmly. " There's something
in the garret I must have. Father would never forgive us for
forgetting that trunk, Pallas."

" Law, suz ! dat trunk ! sure enough," groaned Pallas.

" I must get it," said the young girl.

" How can you, chile ? it's locked, so yer can't get out the
things, and of course you couldn't carry it down. Come back
oh, come back, dear chile, won't yer ? What's forty trunks to
yer own precious life, chile? and them sparks '11 set your
dress on fire, &uc! the heat '11 smother yer all up."

" I've got a haichet, and I'll break it open," shouted Alice,
now fast rowing back toward the cabin.

" That girl's right down crazy," said Ben Perkins ; " here Sat-
urn, take these oars, and make 'em fly. I'm goin' after her."

He threw off his jacket and boots, plunged into the stream,
swam ashore, and ran along the bank, keeping pace with the
skiff. Both reached the house at the same instant, they were
gone perhaps three minutes, and came forth again, Ben carry
tug the trunk upon his shoulder. One instant they paused tf
ook upon the wall of fire behind them ; but the heat was in
-olerable.

" These falling bits will sartainly set your clothi^'r a-blaze,'
said Ben, hurrying the young girl away, who would fain hava
lingered yet around the home which had grown clear to her
with her growth — already the garden was withering, and the
vines she had planted were drooping before then- impending
ruin.

" My dress is woolen," she said ; " but I will go. Oh, Ben
this is terrible, is it not ?"

" Yes, Miss Alice, but if ye get away safe now, you may
.hank yer stars. I don't believe the canoe '11 hold you and
tne trunk both," he remarked, as he deposited his precious
to Alice) bwden in the bottom of it.

6UFF0CATING WITH SMOKE. <#

u Yes it will— but you, Ben ?"

': Oh, I ain't of as much consequence as a trunk," he re-
plied, bitterly. " Take car' of yourself— don't mind me."

" I shan't stir from this spot until you come with me, Ben.
So p;et into the boat, quick."

"Get in yourself, Miss Alice, and make good time. Youll
be baked like a brick, if yer don't get out of this soon. I'm
going to swim 'long side. "What's a mile or two, swimmin'
dr>wn stream ?" He threw himself in the water, and struck
ont, as he spoke.

She kept beside of him, refusing to go faster than he, that
she might give him aid, in case he became exhausted ; the
river at this spot was over a mile in width, and it would have
oenn difficult for him, tired and heated as he already was, to
make the opposite shore.

As they made their way along in this manner, the wind
swept the hot breath of the fire around them in suffocating
WHves. The cold surface of the river kept the air compara-
tively pure for two or three feet above it, or they would have
smothered ; but as it was, Alice gasped for breath convulsively
at times.

" Alice ! Alice ! you are sufferin' — you can't stand it," cried
her companion in a voice which betrayed the agony of his
soul — it thrilled through her, it was so sharp with pain.

" Don't be uneasy, Ben, we're nearly clear of the fire, now ;"
but struggle as bravely as she might, she could endure the
heat no longer, and she, too, leaped into the river, and shelter-
ing herself beneath the shadow of the skiff, swam boldly on,
holding a small rope in her hand which secured it from float-
ing off.

As soon as the advance party had got out of the smoke and
heat, they waited the return of the two, who made their
appearance in an alarming condition, Alice having become
exhausted in the water, and Ben having her in one arm, antf
swimming with the other, while he towed the skiff by a ropt
held between his teeth.

Alice fainted away when she found herself safe in Pallas'
motherly arms ; and Ben might have frfiowed her examplo
had not one of his comrades been ready with a flask of spirits.
It was thought best to administer the same restorative to the

M ALICE wraa.

young girl, who soon revived, murmuring: "Father will be
so glad the trunk is safe, Pallas."

As the morning broke, the party reached the shelter of the
mill. It was two or three days before Alice was -well enough
to visit the ruins of her beloved home ; and then she could
only row along the river and gaze upon the blackened and
smoking mass, for the earth was still too hot to be ventured
upon. The cabin smoldered in a heap ; the top of the great
elm was blackened and the foliage gone, but it had not fallen,
and the grass was crisped and withered to the edge of the
river.

The tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed ; but with
. the hopefulness of youth, she passed on, seeking a new spot to
consecrate as a second home. It was vain to think of rebuild-
ing in the same vicinity, as all its beauty was destroyed, and
it would take some years for it to renew itself. She knew that
her father did not wish to live too near to his mill, as he had
always kept his home aloof from it ; that he would be satisfied
with such a spot as she liked ; and she was ambitious to begin
the work, for she knew the winter would be upon them
before they could complete a new house, if plans were not
early made. There was a lovely spot just beyond the ravages
of the fire, where the river made a crescent which held in its
hollow a grove of beech and elm and a sloping lawn, standing
In advance of the dark pines stretching back into the interior.
&s her father owned the land for some distance along the
ihore she was at liberty to make her choice, and she made
it here.

Ben Perkins, when necessity demanded, was the carpenter
of the place. He had a full set of tools, and there were others
of the men capable of helping him. There was timber, plenty
of it, already sawed, for the frame of the new house, and while
a portion went to work upon it, boards were sawed for the
siding, and shingles turned out of the shingle-machine. As
the "hands" said, Alice made an excellent captain.

A little sleeping-apartment had been constructed for her off
the main cabin, at the mill, and her own bed put up in it;
but she did not like the publicity of the table and the place,
and longed for the new home to be completed.

The emotions of David Wilde were not enviable when, upon

THE NEW HOOSb.

his return, be came in sight of the blackened ruins of hia
home. He did not so much heed the vast destruction of
raluable timber, as he did the waste of that snug little, vine-
tovered cabin, with the garden, the flowers, and the associa-
tions clustering about all. The first question he asked when
he clasped his child to his heart, and found her safe, was of
old Pallas : " That trunk in the garret— was it saved ?"

" Pickaninny saved dat ar' trunk, masser. She tought yc
had suthin' important in it, and she would go back;" an
Alice felt repaid for all the risk she had run, when she sa^
the look of relief upon her father's face.

Ben Perkins had planned the new house, the frame of
which was ready to be raised the day after the captain's return.
Whether he had cunningly calculated that the family would
some time be inercased, or not, certain it is that he made
liberal allowance for such a contingency. He had much
natural talent as an architect, and from some printed plans
which had fallen into his possession, he contrived a very
pretty rustic cottage, with sharp-pointed gables something in
the Gothic style, and a porch in front. Alice was charmed
with it.

" We'll get the house in livin' order in a month or two ;
but yer can't have all the fixin's over the windows and the
porch afore spring ; I'll have to make 'em all by hand, through
the winter, when thar' ain't much else a-doin'."

Ben was ambitious to conciliate Alice, and to make her fee/
now useful he could be to her and her father. Love prompt
ed his head and hands to accomplish wonders. Poor Ben !
work as he might, gain her expressions of gratitude and admi-
ration as he might, that was the most. There was always a
reserve about her which held his fiery feelings in check. Hia
was not a nature, either to check and control its own strong
passions, or to give up an object upon which they were
once set.

A settled gloom came over his olive face, and his eyes
burned like smoldering fires beneath their black brows. Ho
no longer had pleasant remarks to make ; no longer brought
daily gifts of fish, Dirds, berries, squirrels, venison, or grapes to
Alice; no longer '„ried to break down her reserve— he just
worked— worked constantly, perseveringly, moodily.

8b ALICE -WILDE.

Alice herself was scarcely more gay. He guessed whose
image filled her mind, when she sat so long without moving,
looking off at the frost-tinted forests ; and the thought waa
bitterness.

It was necessary for Captain Wilde to go again to some
settlement down the river, to get hinges, locks, window-sashes,
glass, etc, for the new house, which was to be ready for those
finishing touches, by the time of his return. He did not
know, when he set out, whether he would go as far as Center
City, or stop at some smaller point nearer home.

One day, about the time of his expected return, Ben had
gone for Alice, to get her opinion about some part of th&
house. They stood together, on the outside, consulting about
it, so Interested in the detail that they neither of them noticed
the boat upon the river, until it was moored to the bank, and
the voice of the raftsman was heard calling to them.

Both turned at the same moment and saw that Philip Mooro
was in company with Mr. Wilde. Ben's eyes fixed themselves
instantly upon Alice's face, which was first pale and then red.
He saw the great throb her heart gave, heard the sudden
catch in her breath ; and he was still looking at her when
Philip sprang gayly up the path and seized her hand— the
man who loved her better than life saw all the blushes of
womanhood coming and going upon her face at the touch of
another's hand.

A threatening blackness clouded his brow; Alice saw it,
and knew that he read her secret by the light of his own pas-
sion ; she almost shuddered at the dark look which he flashed
upon Philip ; but her father was calling for assistance to un-
load his craft, and Ben went forward without speaking.

" What a surly fellow that is, for one so good-looking and
young," remarked Philip, carelessly, looking after him.

" He is not always so surly," Alice felt constrained to say
in his defense : " he's vexed now about something."

" But that's an ill-tempered look for a youthful face, Alice
I'm afraid he'd hardly make a woman very happy — eh, Alice ?'

" That's a matter which does not interest me, Mr. Moore, I
assure you," answered the young girl, with an unexpected
flash of pride.

PALLAS MAKES A SPEECH.

CHAPTER VI.

THE COLD HOUSE-WARMING.

" It's an ill-wind dat blows nobody no good ; and dat yar
wind dat blowed de fire right down on our cabin did us some
good ater all. Masser 'ud libbed in dat log-bouse till de day
he died, hadn't been for dat fire dat frighted me so, and
made me pray fasser 'n eber I prayed afore. Lord ! Misa
Alice, it looked like de judgment-day, when we sailed down
de ribber in de light ob de pine-woods. 'Peared to me de
worl' was all on fire. I see Saturn a shakin' in his boots.
He tole me, nex' day, be tougbt it was de day of judgment,
sure 'nuff. I beard him askin' de good Lord please forgib
him fur all de 'lasses be'd taken unbeknown. My ! my ! I
larfed myself to pieces when I tought of it arterward, case I' 1
never known where de 'lasses went to hadn't been for da
fire. Dis new house mighty nice. Pen didn't forget ole nig-
gers when be built dis — de kitchen, and de pantry, and my
settin'-room is mighty comfor'able. Pen's a handy young
man — smart as a basket o' chips. He's good 'nuff for most
inybody, but he's not good 'nuff for my pickaninny, and hr
ought to hab sense 'nuff to see it. Ye'd best be kerful, Miss
Alice ; he's high-tempered, and he'll make trouble. 'Scuse
me for speakin' ; I know ye've allers been so discreet and
as modest as an angel. None can blame you, let what
will happen. Put I wish dat Mr. Moore would go way.
Yes, I do, Miss Alice, for more 'n one reason. Don't tink
ole Pallas not see tru a grin'-stone. Ef he wants to leab
any peace o' mind behind him, he'd better clar out seen.
Thar ! thar, chile, nebber mind ole nigger. My ! how pnrty
you has made de table look. I'm much obleeged for yer as-
sistance, darlin\ I'se bound to hab a splendid supper, de fu3t
in de new house. 'Taint much of a house-warmin', seein'
we'd nobody to invite, and no fiddle, but we've done what we

40 ALICE WILDE.

could to make things pleasant. Laws ! ef dat nigger ob mme
wasn't scch a fool he could make a fiddle, and play suthin'
for us, times when we was low-sperited."

Pallas' tongue did not go any faster than her hands and feet.
It was the first day in the new house, and Alice and herself
had planned to decorate the principal apartment, and have an
extra nice supper. Ever since her father left for the mill, in
the middle of the day, after the furniture was moved in, while
Pallas put things " to rights," she had woven wreaths of ever-
greens, with scarlet dogberries and brilliant autumn-leaves
interspersed, which she had festooned about the windows and
doors ; and now she was busy decorating the table, while the
old colored woman passed in and out, adding various well-
prepared dishes to the feast.

Pallas had beeii a famous cook in her day, and she still
made the best of the materials at her command. A large
cake, nicely frosted, and surrounded with a wreath, was one
of the triumphs of her skill. A plentiful supply of preserved
strawberries and wild-plum marmalade, grape-jelly, and black-
berry-jam adorned the board. A venison-pie was baking in
the oven, and a salmon, that would have roused the envy of
Delmonico's, was boiling in the pot, while she prepared a
sauce for it, for which, in times gone by, she had received
many a compliment.

Philip had been taken into the secret of the feast, as Alice
was obliged to depend upon him for assistance in getting ever-
greens. He was now out after a fresh supply, and Alice was
beginning to wish he would make more haste, lest her father
ihould return before the preparations were complete.

Again and again she went to the door to look out for him ;
and at last, six o'clock being come and past, she said with a
pretty little frown of vexation :

" There's father coming, and Mr. Moore not back !"
The feast waited until seven — eight — and yet Philip had
not returned.

Several of the men who had been busy about the house
during the day were invited into supper ; and at eight o'clock
Uiey sat clown to it, in something of silence and apprehension,
for every one by this time had come to the conclusion that
Philip was lost in the woods. Poor Alice could not forcb

LOST IS THB WOODS. 41

herself to eat. She tried to smile as she waited upon her
guests; but her face grew paler and her eyes larger every
moment. Not that there was any such great cause for fright
there were no wild animals in that vicinity, except an occa-
lional hungry bear in the spring, who had made his way from
some remote forest ; but she was a woman, timid and lovmg,
and her fears kept painting terrible pictures of death by
starvation, fierce wolves, sly panthers, and all the horrors of
darkness.

" Poh ! poh ! child, don't look so scart," said her father,
though he was evidently hurrying his meal, and quite uncon-
scious of the perfection of the salmon-sauce, " there's no cause.
He's lost ; but he can't get so fur in the wrong direction but
we'll rouse him out with our horns and lanterns and guns.
We'll load our rifles with powder and fire 'em off. He hasn't
had time to get fur."

" Likely he'll make his own way back time we're through
.nipper," remarked one of the men cheerfully, as he helped
himself to a second large piece of venison-pie. " 'Tain't no
use to be in a hurry. These city folks can't find thar way in
the woods quite like us fellers, though. They ain't up to V

Alice looked over at the speaker; and, albeit she was
usually so hospitable, wished he would make more speed with
his eating. Pallas waited upon the table in profound silence.
Something was upon her mind ; but when Alice looked at
her anxiously she turned her eyes away, pretending to be
busy with her duties.

Ben Perkins had been asked to supper, but did not make
his appearance until it was nearly over. When he came in
he did not look anybody straight in the face, but sittin" down
with a reckless, jovial air, different from his usual taciturn
manner, began laughing, talking, and eating, filling his plate
with every thing he could reach.

" Have you seen any thing of Mr. Moore ?" was the first
question put to bam, in the hope of hearing from the abseiV
man.

"Moore? no,— ain't lie here? Thought of course he'u
be here makin' himself agreeable to the women-" and he
laughed.

Whether Alice's excited state exalted all her perceptions

43 ALICE WILDE.

or whether her ears were more finely strung than those around
"ier, this laugh, short, dry, and forced, chilled her blood. He
did not look toward her as he spoke, but her gaze was fixed
upon him with a kind of fascination ; she could not turn it
tiway, but sat staring at him, as if in a dream. Only once did
he lift his eyes while he sat at the table, and then it was to-
ward her ; they slowly lifted as if her own fixed gaze drew
them up ; she saw them clearly for an instant, and— such
eyes ! His soul was in them, although he knew it not— &
fallen soul — and the covert look of it through those lurid eyes
was dreadful.

A strange tremulousness now seized upon Alice. She lmi
ried her father and his men in their preparations, brought tin
lanterns, the rifles, the powder-horns ; her hands shaking ah
the time. They laughed at her for a foolish child ; and she
said nothing, only to hurry them. Ben was among the most
eager for the search. He headed a party which he proposed
should strike directly back into the wood ; but two or three
thought best to go in another direction, so as to cover the
whole ground. When they had all disappeared in the wood,
their lights flashing here and there through openings and their
shouts ringing through the darkness, Alice said to Pallas :

" Let us go too. There is another lantern. You won't be
afraid, will you ?"

" I'll go, to please you, chile, for I see yer mighty restless.
I don't like trabelling in de woods at night, but dc Lord's
ober all, and I'll pray fas' and loud if I get skeered."

A phantom floated in the darkness before the eyes of Alice
all through that night spent in wandering through forest
depths, but it was shapeless, and she would not, dared not
give shape to it. All night guns were fired, and the faithful
men pursued their search ; and at daybreak they returned,
now really alarmed, to refresh their exhausted powers with
strong coffee and a hastily-prepared breakfast, before renewing
their exertions.

The search became now of a different character. Con-
vinced that the missing man could not have got beyond the
hearing of the clamor they had made through the night, they
now anticipated some accident, and looked closely into every
shadow and under every clump of fallen trees, behind logs, and
into hollows.

ATTEMPTED MURDER. 48

Drinking the coffee which Pallas forced upon her, Alice
again set forth, not with the others, but alone, walking like
-me distracted, darting wild glances hither and thither, and
calling In an impassioned voice that wailed through the wil-
derness, seeming to penetrate every breath of air,—" Philip !
Philip !"

And now she saw where he had broken oft evergreens the
day before, and fluttering round and round the spot, like a
bird crying after its robbed nest, she sobbed,— u Philip !
Philip !"

And then she saw 7iim, sitting on a log, pale and haggard-
looking, his white face stained with blood and his hair mottled
with it, a frightful gash across his temple and head, which he
drooped upon his hand ; and he tried to answer her. Before
she could reach him ho sank to the ground.

" He is dead !" she cried, flying forward, sinking beside
him, and lifting his head to her knee. " Father ! father !
come to us !"

They heard her sharp cry, and, hastening to the spot, found
her, pale as the body at her feet, gazing clown into the deathly
face.

"Alice, don't look so, child. He's not dead — he's only
fainted. Here, men, lift him up speedily, for he's nigh about
gone. Thar's been mischief here — no mistake !"

Captain Wilde breathed hard as he glared about upon his
lnen. The thought had occurred to him that some one hat?
jttempted to murder the young man for his valuable watch
Jnd chain and the well -filled purse he was supposed to carry.
Jut nu — the watch and money were undisturbed ; — may be ho
kad fallen and cut his head — if he should revive, they would
know all.

They bore him to the house and laid him upon Alice's
white bed in the pretty room just arranged for her comfort •
.t was the quietest, pleasantest place in the house, and she
would have him there. After the administration of a powei
ful dose of brandy, the faint pulse of the wounded man flut-
tered up a little stronger ; more was given him, the blood
was wiped away, and cool, wet napkins kept around his
head ; and by noon of the same day, he was able to give
some account of himself.

44 ALICE WILDK.

He was sitting in the very spot where they had found him,
on the previous afternoon, with a heap of evergreens gathered
tibout him, preoccupied in making garlands, so that he saw
Qothing, heard nothing, until something — it seemed to him a
^lub wielded by some assailant who had crept up behind him
—struck him a blow which instantly deprived him of his
senses. How long he la}', bleeding and stunned, he could
only guess ; it seemed to be deep night when he recalled what
had happened, and found himself lying on the ground, con-
fused by the pain in his head and faint from loss of blood.
He managed to crawl upon the log, so as to lean his head
upon his arms, and had been there many hours. He heard
the shouts and saw the lights which came near him two 01
three times, but he could not make noise enough to attract at-
tention. When he heard Alice's voice, he had lifted himself
into a sitting posture, but the effort was too great, and he
sank again, exhausted, at the moment relief reached him.

His hearers looked in each other's faces as they heard his
story. Who could have done that murderous deed ? What
was the object ? the pleasant young stranger had no enemies,
— he had not been robbed ; there were no Indians known to
be about, and Indians would have finished their work with
the scalping-knife.

Alas ! the terrible secret preyed at the heart of Alice Wildq
She knew, though no mortal lips had revealed it, who was
the would-be murderer. A pair of eyes had unconsciously
betrayed it. She had read " murder" there, and the wherefore
was now evident.

Yet she had no proof of that of which she was so conscious.
Should she denounce the guilty man, people would ask for evi-
dence of his crime. What would she have to offer ?— that the
criminal loved her, and she loved the victim. No ! she would
keep the gnawing truth in her own bosom, only whispering a
warning to the sufferer should he ever be well enough to need
X • a matter by no means settled, as David Wilde was doctor
enough to know.

Despite of all the preventives within reach, a fever set in
that night, and for two or three days, Philip was very ill, a
part of the time delirious ; there was much more probability
5f his dying than recovering. Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas

FEVER— DELIRIUM.

had that skill picked up by the necessity of being doctors to
all accidents and diseases around them; and they exerted
themselves to the utmost for their unfortunate young guest.

Then it was that Mr. Wilde found where the heart of his
little girl had gone astray; and cursed himself for his folly in
exposing her to a danger so probable. Yet, as he looked at
her sweet face, worn with watching and trouble, he could not
but believ« that the hand of the proudest aristocrat on earth
was none too good for her, and that Philip would recognize
her beauty and worth. If she must love, and be married, he
would more willingly resign her to Philip Moore than to any
other man. Alice lacked experience as a nurse, but she fol-
lowed every motion of the good old colored woman, and
stood ready to interfere where she could be of any use.

Sitting hour after hour by Philip's bedside, changing tha
wet cloths constantly to keep them cool, she heard words
from his delirious lips which added still more to her despair —
fond, passionate words, addressed not to her, but to some be-
loved woman, some beautiful " Virginia," now far away, un-
conscious of her lover's danger, while to her fell the sad pleas-
ure of attending upon him.

" Oh, that he raay live, and not die by the hand of an as-
sassin, so innocent a victim to a needless jealousy. Oh, that
he may live to save this Virginia, whoever she may be, from
the fate of a hopeless mourner. It will be joj enough for
\:H. to save his life," she cried to herself.

The crisis passed ; the flush of fever was succeeded by the
languor and pallor of extreme prostration; but the young
man's constitution was excellent, and he recovered rapidly.
Then how it pleased Pallas to cook him tempting dishes ;
and how it pleased Alice to see the appetite with which he
disposed of them. Women love to serve those who are dear
to them ; no service can be so homely or so small that their
enthusiasm docs not exalt it.

Yet the stronger Philip grew, the more heavily pressed a
cold horror upon the soul of Alice. Ben P;rkins had not
been to the house since the wounded man was brought into
it ; and when Alice would have asked her father of his where-
abouts, her lips refused to form his name. She hoped that
he had fled ; but then she knew that if he had disappeared, her

46 ALICE WILDB.

father would have mentioned it, and that the act would have
fixed suspicion upon him. She felt that he was hovering
about, that he often beheld her, when she was unaware of the
3ecret gaze ; she could not endure to step to the door after
dark-, and she closed the curtains of the windows with ex-
tremest care,, especially in Philip's room.

The first light snow of November had fallen when the in-
valid was able to sit up all day ; but, although he knew that
his long absence would excite consternation among his friends
at Center City, and that business at home required his atten-
tion, he found each day of his convalescence so pleasant, that
he had not strength of will sufficient to break the charm.
To read to his young friend while she sewed ; to watch her
flitting about the room while he reclined upon a lounge ; to
talk with her ; to study her changing countenance, grew every
day more sweet to him. At first he thought it was gratitude
— she had been so kind to him. But a thrilling warmth al-
ways gathered about his heart when he remembered that pas-
sionate voice, crying through the pine-woods with such a
sobbing sound — " Philip ! Philip !"

Finding himself thus disposed to linger, he was the moie
chagrined to perceive that Alice was anxious to have him go ;
she gave him no invitation to prolong his visit, and said un-
equivocally, that if he did not wish to be ice-bound for the
winter, he would have to depart as soon as his strength would
permit. Her father had promised him, when he came up, to
take him down the river again when he was ready, as ho
should be obliged to go down again for his winter stores ; and
he now waited his visitor's movements.

No words had passed between Alice and Pallas on the sub-
ject of the attempted murder, yet the former half knew that
the truth was guessed by the faithful servant who also hast-
ened the departure of their guest.

" I declare, Aunt Pallas, I believe I have worn out my wel-
come. I've been a troublesome fellow, I know ; but it hurts
my vanity to see you getting so tired of me," he said, laugh-
ingly, one day, when they were alone together, he sitting on
the kitchen-steps after the lazy manner of convalescents, try-
ing to get warmth both from the fire within and the sun
without.

QUESTIONING THE NIGGER. 47

" Ole folks never gets tired of young, 'bright faces, masser
Philip. But ole folks knows sometimes what's fer de best,
more 'n young ones."

" Then you think Miss Alice wants to get rid of me, and
you second your darling's wishes— eh, Pallas ?" and he looked
at her, hoping she would contradict him.

" I'd do a' mos' any thing for my pickaninny — I lub her
better den life ; an' dar' never was anudder such a chile, so
pretty and so good, as I know as has been wid her sence she
drew her firs' bref. If I tought she wanted you to go, I'd
want you to go, too, masser, not meanin' any disrespeck — and
she do want you to go ; but she's got reasons for it ;" and she
shook her yellow turban reflectively.

" Do you think she is getting to dialike me ?"

" Dat's her own bisness, ef she is ; but dat ain't de main
reason. She don't like de look of that red scar down your
forrid. She knows who made dat ugly scar, and what fer
they did it. She tinks dis a dangerous country for you, Masser
Moore, and Pallas tink so too. Go way, masser, quick as you
can, and nebber come back any more."

" But I shall come back, Aunt Pallas, next spring, to bring
you something nice for all you've done for me, and because —
because — I shan't be able to stay away," he answered, though
somewhat startled and puzzled by her revelation.

" "Why not be able to stay 'way ?" queried she, with a sharp
glance.

" Oh, you can guess, Aunt Pallas. I shan't tell you."

" People isn't allers satisfied with guessing — like to have
things plain, and no mistake 'bout 'em," observed Pallas.

" Just so. I am not satisfied with guessing who tried to
kill me, and what their object was. I am going to ask Alice
this evening. She's evidently frightened about me ; she won't
let me stir a step alone. So you think your pickaninny is the
best and the prettiest child alive, do you ?"

"Dat Ida"

" So do I. What do you suppose she thinks of such %
worthless kind of a person as myself? Do, now, tell me,
won't you, auntie ?"

" You clar out, young masser, and don't bozzer me. I'se busy
wid dis ironin'. You'd better ask Tier, if yer want to find out."

48 ALICE WILDE.

" But can't you say something to encourage me ?"

" You go 'long. Better tease somebody hain't got no ironin
on hand."

" You'll repent of your unkindness soon, Aunt Pallas ; for,
be it known to you, tomorrow is set for my departure, and
when I'm gone it will be too late to send your answer after
me ;" and the young man rose, with a very becoming air of
injured feeling which delighted her much.

" Hi ! hi ! ef it could only be," she sighed, looking after
him. " But we can't smoof tings out in dis yere worl' quite
so easy as I smoof out dis table-cloth. He's one ob de family,
no mistake ; and masser's found it out, too, 'fore dis."

That night the family sat up late, Pallas busy in the kitchen
putting up her master's changes of linen and cooked provisions
for the next day's journey, and the master himself busied
about many small affairs demanding attention.

The two young people sat before a blazing wood-Are in the
front room ; the settle had been drawn up to it for Philip's
convenience, and his companion at his request had taken a
seat by his side. The curtains were closely drawn, yet Alice
would frequently look around in a timid, wild way, which he
could not but notice.

" You did not use to be so timid."

" I have more reason now ;" and she shuddered. " Until
you were hurt, Mr. Moore, I did not think how near we might
be to murderers, even in our house."

" You should not allow it to make such an impression on
your mind. It is passed ; and such things scarcely happen
twice in one person's experience."

"' I do not fear for myself— it is for you, Mr. Moore."

" Philip, you called me, that night in the woods. Supposing
I was in danger, little Alice, what would you risk for me?"

She did not answer.

"Well, what would you risk for some one you loved — say,
your father ?"

" All things— my life."

" There are some people who would rather risk their life
than their pride, their family name, or their money. Sup-
posing a man loved a woman very much, and she professed to
return his love, but was not willing to share his meager frr-

CONFESSIONS.

49

tunes with hiin ; could not sacrifice splendoi and the passion
for admiration, for his sake— what would you think of her?"
" That she did not love him."

" But you do not know, little Alice ; you have never been
tempted ; and you know nothing of the strength of fashion in
the world, of the influence of public opinion, or the pride of
appearances."

" I have guessed it," she answered, sadly.
He thought there was a shadow of reproach in those pure
eyes, as if she would have added, that she had been made to
feel it, too.

"I loved a woman once," he continued; "loved her so
rashly that I would have let her set her perfect foot upon my
neck and press my life out. She knew how I adored her, and
she told me she returned my passion. But she would not
resign any of her rank and influence for my sake."
" Was her name Virginia ?"
" It was ; how did you know ?"
" You talked of her when you were ill."
" I'll warrant. But she wouldn't have sat up one night by
tny bedside, for fear her eyes would be less brilliant for the
next evening's ball. She drove me off to the West to make a
fortune for her to spend, in case she did not get hold of somo-
body else's by that time. Do you think I ought to make it
for her?"

There was no answer. His companion's head was droop-
mg. He lifted one of her hands, as he went on :

"I was so dazzled by her magnificence that, for a long
tune, I could see nothing in its true light. But my vision is
clear now. Virginia shall never have my fortune to spend,
nor me to twist around her jeweled finger."
The hand he held began to tremble.

" Now, little Alice, supposing I had told you of such love,
and you had professed to answer it, what sacrifices would you
have made? Would you have given me that little gold
heart you wear about your neck — your only bit of ornamen-
tation ?"

" I would have made a sacrifice, full as great in its way, as
the decline in pomp and position might have been to the
proud lady," she replied, lifting her eyes calmly to his face.

60 ALICE WILDE.

" I would have refused the offered happiness if, by accepting
it, I thought I should ever, by my ignorance of proprieties,
give him cause to blush for me — if I thought my uncultivated
tastes would some time disappoint him, that he would grow
weary of me as a friend and companion because I was not
truly fitted for that place — if I thought I was not worthy of
him, I would sacrifice myself, and try to wish only for his best
happiness."

Her eyes sank, as she ceased speaking, and the tears which
would come into them, gushed over her cheeks.

" Worthy ! you are more than worthy of the best man in
tie world, Alice ! /ar more than worthy of me!" cried Philip,
in a rapture he could not restrain. " 0 Alice, if you only
loved me in that fashion !"

" You know that I do," she replied, with that archness so
native to her, smiling through her tears.

" Then say no more. There— don't speak— don't speak !"
and he shut her mouth with the first kiss of a lover.

For a while their hearts beat too high with happiness to
recall any of the difficulties of their new relation.

" We shall have small time to lay plans for the future, now.
But I shall fly to you on the first breezes of spring, Alice.
Tour father shall know all, on our way down the river. Oh,
if there was only a mail through this forlorn region. I could
write to yov, at least."

" I shall have so much to do, the winter will speedily pass
I must study the books you brought me. But I shall not
allow myself to hope too much," she added, with a sudden
melancholy, such as sometimes is born of prophetic instinct.

" I can not hope too highly !" said Philip, with enthusiasm.
" Here comes your father. Dear Alice, your cheeks are so
rosy, I believe he will iead our secret to-night."

A. HEW TBOUBLB. 51

CHAPTER VII.

SUSPENSE.

What was the consternation of Alice when her father re-
turned the evening of the day of his departure and told her
he had concluded he could not be spared for the trip, and so,
when they reached the mill, he had chosen Ben to fill his
place ! Every vestige of color fled from her face.

" 0 father ! how could you trust him with Philip ?" burst
forth involuntarily.

" Trust Ben ? Why, child, thar ain't a handier sailor round
the place. And if he wan't, I guess Moore could take care
of himself— he'll manage a craft equal to an old salt."

" Can't you go after them, father ? oh, do go, now, this
night — this hour !"

" Why, child, you're crazy !" replied the raftsman, looking
at her ia surprise. " I never saw you so foolish before. Go
after a couple of young chaps full-grown and able to take care
of themselves ? They've the only sail-boat there is, besides—
and I don't think I shall break my old arms rowing after 'em
"vhen they've got a good day's start," and he laughed good-
naturedly. " Go along, little one, I'm 'fraid your love-cracked."
Got the only sail-boat there was ! There would be no use,
then, in making her father the confidant of her suspicions. It
seemed as if fate had fashioned this mischance. Several of
the men had' got into a quarrel, at the mill, that morning;
some of the machinery had broken, and so much business
pressed upon the owner, that he had been obliged to relinquish
his journey. He had selected Ben as his substitute because
he was his favorite among all his employees ; trusty, quick,
honest, would make a good selection of winter stores, and
render a fair account of the money spent. Such had been
the young man's character ; and the little public of Wilde's
mill did not know that a stain had come upon it— that the

53 ALICE WILDE.

mark of Cain was secretly branded upon the swarthy brow
which once could have flashed back honest mirth upon them.

They say "the devil is not so black as he is painted;"
and surely Ben Perkins was not so utterly depraved as might
be thought. He was a heathen ; one of those white heathen,
found plentifully in this Christian country, not only in the
back streets of cities, but in the back depths of sparsely-settled
countries.

He had grown up without the knowledge of religion, as it
ft taught, except an occasional half-understood sensation ser-
mon from some travelling missionary — he had never been made
to comprehend the beauty of the precepts of Christ— and he
_>ad no education which would teach him self-control and the
noble principle of self-government. Unschooled, with a high
temper and fiery passions, generous and kindly, with a pride
of character which would have been fine had it been enlight-
ened, but which degenerated to envy and jealousy of his
superiors in this ignorant boy-nature — the good and the bad
grew rankly together. From the day upon which he " hired
out," a youth of eighteen, to Captain Wilde, and saw Alice
Wilde, a child of twelve, looking shyly up at him through her
golden curls, he had loved her. He had worked late and
early, striven to please his employer, shown himself hardy,
courageous, and trustworthy — h»d done extra jobs that he
might accumulate a little sum to invest in property — all in the
hope of some time daring to ask her to marry him. Her
superior refinement, her innate delicacy, her^sweet beauty were
felt by him only to make him love her the more desperately.
As the sun fills the ether with warmth and light, so she fll.ed
his soul. It was not strange that he was infuriated by the sight
of another man stepping in and winning so easily what he had
striven for so long — he saw inevitably that Alice would love
Philip Moore — this perfumed and elegant stranger, with his
fine language, his fine clothes, and his fine manners. He
conceived a deadly hate for him. All that was wicked in him
grew, choking down every thing good. He allowed himself to
.srood over his wrongs, as he regarded them ; growing sullen,
imprudent, revengeful. Then the opportunity came, and he
fell beneath the temptation.

Chance had saved him from the consummation of the deed,

PERTURBED DREAMS.

53

though not from the guilt of the intent. He had thought him-
self, for half a day to be a murderer,— and during those hours
the rash boy had changed into the desperate man. Whether
he had suffered so awfully in conscience that he was glad to
hear of the escape of his intended victim, or whether he swore
still to consummate his wish, his own soul only knew.

Everybody at Wilde's mill had remarked the change in
him, from a gay youth full of jests and nonsense to a quiet,
morose man, working more diligently than ever, but sullenly
rejecting all advances of sport or confidence.

If he was secretly struggling for the mastery over evil, it
was a curious fatality which threw him again upon a tempta-
tion so overwhelming in its ease and security of accomplish
Jient.

Ah, well did the unhappy Alice realize how easily now he
could follow his intent — how fully in his power was that un
suspicious man who had already suffered so much from his
hands. Appetite and sleep forsook her ; if she slept it was
but to dream of a boat gliding down a river, of a strong man
raising a weak one in his grasp and hurling him, wounded
and helpless, into the waters, where he would sink, sink, till
the waves bubbled over his floating hair, and all was gone.
Many a night she started from her sleep with terrified shrieks,
which alarmed her father.

'"Taint right for a young girl to be having the nightmare
so, Pallas. Suthin' or another is wrong about her— hain't nc
nerves lately. I do hope she ain't goin' to be one of the
sc reechin', faintin' kind of women folks. I detest sech. Her
health can't be good. Do try and find out what's the matter
with her; she'll tell you quicker 'an she will me. Fix her
up some kind of tea."

" De chile ain't well, masser ; dat's berry plain. She's
getting thin every day, and she don't eat nuff to keep a bird
alive. But its her mind masser — 'pend on it, it's her mind.
Dese young gentleum make mischief. Wish I had massei
"Moore under my thumb— I'd give him a scoldin' would last
tiim all las life."

•' Cuss Philip Moore, and all others of his class," muttered
the raftsman, moodily.

Both Mr. Wilde and Pallas began to lose their high opiniou

64 ALICE WILDE.

of the young man, as they witnessed the silent suffering of
their darling. His going down the river without his expected
company had cheated Philip out of the revelation he had
desired to make ; and Alice, with that excessive delicacy of
come timid young girls, had not even confided her secret to
her good old nurse.

Much better it would have been for her peace of mind, had
she told all to her friends— her love and her fears Then, if
they had seen good reason for her apprehensions, they might
have chased the matter down, at whatever trouble, and put
her out of suspense. But she did not do it. She shut the
growing terror in her heart where it fed upon her life day by
day.

There was no regular communication between "Wilde's mill
and the lower country, and in the winter what little there had
been was cut off. The lovely, lingering Indian-summer days,
in the midst of which the two voyagers had set out, were over,
and ice closed the river the very day after the return of Ben.

A sudden agony of hope and fear convulsed the heart of
Alice, when her father entered the house one day, awf
announced Ben's arrival.

" Did he not bring me a letter ? was there no letter for you,
father ?"

It would be so natural that he should write, at least to hei
Vther, some message of good wishes and announcement of his
fcfe journey — if she couM see his own handwriting, she would
•e satisfied that all was well.

" Thar' was none for me. If Ben got a letter for you, I
s'pose he'll tell you so, as he's coming in with some things."

" Have you any thing for me — any message or letter ?"

It was the first time she had met Ben, face to face, since
that never-to-be-forgotten night of the house-warming; but
now he looked her in the eyes, without any shrinking, and it
appeared to her as if the shadow which had lain upon him
was lifted. He certainly looked more cheerful than he had
done since the day of Philip's unexpected arrival at the new
house. Was it because he felt that an enemy was out of the
vvay ? Alice could not tell ; she waited for him to speak, as
the prisoner waits for the verdict of a jury.

" Thar' ain't any letter, Miss Alice," he replied, " but thar's

A LOVERS PRESENTS. 50

a package— some presents for you, and some for Pallas, toq
from Mr. Moore. He told me to tell you that he was safe an!
sound, and hoped you'd accept the things he sent."

His eyes did not quail as he made this statement, though hfl
Knew that she -was searching them keenly. Perhaps there
was a letter in the bundle. She carried it to her own room
and tore it open. No ! not a single written word. The gifts
for the old servant— silk aprons, gay-colored turbans, and a
string cf gold beads— were in one bundle. In another was a
lady's dressing-case, with brushes, perfumeries, and all those
pretty trifles which grace the feminine toilet, a quantity of
fine writing materials, paper-folder, gold-pen, some exquifcite
small engravings, and, in a tiny box, a ring set with a single
.Mire pearl. That ring ! was it indeed a betrothal ring, sent
to her by her lover, which she should wear to kiss and pray
over ? or was it intended to help her into a bond with his
murderer ? Eagerly she scanned every bit of wrapping-paper
to find some proof that it was Philip's own hand which had
cxide up the costly and tasteful gifts. She could find nothing
t: satisfy her. They might have been purchased with ha
money, but not by him. The ring which she would have worn
so joyfully had she been certain it had come from him, sha
put back in its case without even trying it on her finger.

" O God !" she murmured, throwing herself upon her knees,
" must I bear this suspense all this endless winter ?"

Yes, all that endless winter the weight of suspense was no}
to be lifted — nor for yet more miserable months.

December sat in extremely cold, and the winter throughout
was one of unusual severity.

As the Christmas holidays drew near, that time of feasting
so precious to the colored people raised in " ole Virginny,"
Saturn bestirred himself a little out of his perpetual laziness.
If lie would give due assistance in beating eggs and grinding
spices, chopping suet and picking fowls, as well as " keep his
wife in kindling-wood," Pallas promised him rich rewards in
the way of dainties, and also to make him his favorite dish
a — woodchuck pie.

" 'Clar' to gracious, I don't feel a bit of heart 'bout fixin
up feastesses dis yere Chris'mas," said she to him, one eveaing
In the midst of the bustle of preparation. " "We've allers been

50 ALICE WILDH.

Christian folks 'nuffto keep Chris'mas, even in de wilderness;
but what's de use of cookin' and cookin' and dar's Miss Alice
don't eat as much as dat frozen chick I brought in and put ir
dat basket by de fire."

" But dar's masser, he eat well 'nuff— and I— I'se mighty
hungry dese days. Don't stop cookin', Pallas.

" You hain't got no more feelin's den a common nigger,
Saturn. Nobody 'd tink you was brought up in one de best
families. If I could only tink of somethin' new dat would
coax up pickaninny's appetite a little."

" P'raps she'll eat some my woodchuck pie," suggested
Saturn.

It was a great self-denial for him to propose to share a dish
which he usually reserved especially to himself, but lie, too,
felt as tender as his organism would permit, toward his
youthful mistress.

" Our missus eat woodchuck pie ! you go 'long, Saturn
she wouldn't stomach it. Dat's nigger's dish. I declar' our
chile begins to look jus' as missus did de year afore she died.
I feel worried 'bout her."

" Does you ? Mebbe she's got de rheumatiz or de neu-
rology. I got de rheumatiz bad myself dis week pas'. Wish
you'd fix up some of yer liniment, wife."

" Wall, wall, eberybody has der troubles, even innocen'
ones like our chile. Dis is a wicked and a perwerse genera-
tion, and dat is de reason our woods tuk fire and our house
3iirn up ; and now our dear chile mus' go break her heart
bout somebody as won't say wedder he lubs her or not
She'll go of consumption jes' as missus went. Lor'! who'd a
thought our family wud ever come to such an end? I re-
member when Mortimer Moore kep' up de plantation in gran'
style 'fore he sol' ebery buddy but you and I Saturn, and
kep' us cause we wouldn't leab de family, and tuk us to New
York. Mebbe it was wicked of me to take sides with my
young missus, and help her to get married way she did, and
run 'way wid her, and see her tru thick and thin. But I
see her die, and now, likely, I'll be resarbed to see her chilo
die. Dun know what poor old woman lib for to bury all her
ehildren for. When I tink of all de mince-pies and de
chicken-pies I use to make, and see eat, for Chris'mas, I don't
fee) no heart for to lif dis choppin'- knife anodder time.

ANOTHER PROPOSAL. 67

Tet the preparations progressed, and on Christmas and New
Year's day the men at the mill were supplied with a feast ;
but Alice' could not bring herself to decorate the house with
wreaths of evergreen, according to custom— it brought back
hateful fears too vividly. The unceasing cry of her heart wm
for the river to open. She counted the hours of the days
which must drag on into weeks and months.

Ben now came frequently to the house. If Alice would
not talk to him, he would make himself agreeable to the old
servants ; any thing for an excuse to linger about where he
could obtain glimpses of the face growing so sad and white.
Mr. Wilde had always favored him as a work-hand, and now
ne invited him often to his home. He hoped that even Ben's
company would amuse his daughter and draw her away from
her " love-sickness."

It was a few weeks after the holidays that, one evening,
.Mr. Wilde took Alice upon his knee, smoothing her hair as if
she were a baby, and looking fondly into her face.

" I've some curious news for you, little one," he said, with
a smile. " Would you believe that any one had been thinking
of my little cub for a wife, and had asked me if he might talk
10 her about it ?"

" Was it Ben, father ?"

" Yes, it was Ben. No doubt you knew of it before, you
ily puss !"

" I refused him long ago, father. Didn't he tell you that ?"
" No."

" Would you be willing I should marry a person like
Uim V

" No, not willing. Once I'd have set him afloat if he'd had
the impudence to mention it. But you're failing so, Alice, and
you're so lonesome and so shut up here. I know how it is.
The young must have their mates; and if you want him, I
,han't make any serious ^objection. He's the best there is in
these parts. He's better than a nattering, deceiving gentleman,
Alice. I was fool enough once to imagine you'd never marry,
out live your lifetime with yer old father ; but I ought U
have known better. 'Tain't the way of the world. 'Twasn't
my way, nor your mother's way. No, Alice, if yer ever in
love, and w»nt to marry, unless I know the man's a villain, I

58 ALICE WILDE.

snail make no objections. Ben loves you, my dear, despet
ately. A girl should give two thoughts before she throws
away such a love as his. 'Tain't every man is capable of ft."

" But I'm engaged to Philip Moore, father. We love each
other." Her blushing cheek was pressed against his that ho
might not see it.

" Alice, my child," said the raftsman very gently, in a voice
full of pity and tenderness ; " Mr. Moore is a rascal. He may
have told you that he loved you, but he don't. He don't in-
tend to marry you. He's a . — proud aristocrat !" waxing
wrathy as he went on. " There ! there ! don't you feel hurt ;
I know all about him. Knew 't he made fun of us, after all
we'd done for him, in his store down to Center City, when he
didn't know Ben was listenin'. Besides, he advised Ben to
marry you, to keep you from breakin' your heart about 7t»;
said you expected him back in the spring, but he was goin'
on East to marry a girl there. So you see you must think no
more of that rascally fellow, Alice. If he ever does come
back here I'll whip him."

" Ben told you this ?" cried Alice, her eyes flashing fire and
her white lips quivering. " And you believed the infamous
lie, father ? No ! no ! Ben has murdered him, father— he has
murdered my Philip, and has invented this lie to prevent our
expecting him. O Philip !"— her excitement overpowered
her and she fainted in her father's arms.

Now that the tension of suspense had given way, and she
deemed herself certain of the fate of her lover, she yielded for
a time to the long-smothered agony within her, going from
one fainting-fit to another all through that wretched night.

The next day, when composed enough to talk, she told her
father all— Ben's offer of marriage, his threats, the circum-
stantial evidence which fixed the guilt of the assault in the
woods upon him, and her belief now that Philip had been
made away with. The raftsman himself was startled ; and to
quiet and encourage his child, he promised to set orT, by to-
morrow, upon the ice, and skate down to Center City, that
,er fears might be dispelled or confirmed. But that very
night the weather, which had been growing warm for a week,
melted into rain, and the ice became too rotten to trust.
There was nothing to do but to wait,

•WAITING FOB SPRING. 59

"'Tain't by no means certain he's done sech a horrible
thing. And if you'll pick up courage to think so, and make
yerself as easy as you can, I'll start the very first day it's pos-
sible. Likely in March the spring '11 open. You may go
'long -with me, too, if you wish, so as to learn the news as
soon as I do. I'll say nothing of my suspicions to young
Perkins, but try to treat him the same as eyer, till I know he
desarves different."

60 A1ICB WILD*.

CHAPTER VIII.

AWAY FHOM HOME.

A quaint party were to be seen passing through seme of
the streets of Centre City one April day of the following spring.
A tall and vigorous man, with a keen, intelligent face, clad in
a calico shirt, a blue-woolen hunter's i-ock and buckskin
breeches, strode on as if anxious to reach his destination; or,
rather, as if used to making good time over endless prairies
and through unsurveyed forests. By his side walked a young
girl whose dress, though of the best materials, was antique a9
our grandmothers' ; a broad-brimmed hat shaded a face the
loveliest ever beheld in that city ; her little slippers with their
silver buckles peeped out from beneath her short frock. Those
who were fortunate enough to see her as she passed did not
know which to admire most— the exquisite, unstudied grace
of her manners, which was as peculiar as her beauty, or the
seraphic innocence of her expression. She kept pace with her
companion, looking gravely forward with those great, blue
eyes, only occasionally giving the crowd a fawn-like, startled
look, when it pressed too near. A few paces behind trudged
an ancient colored couple, the man short, and white-eyed,
rolling smiles as he passed, evidently supposing all the atten-
tion of the lookers-on to be concentrated on his flaming vest
his flowered coat, and bran new boots; the woman a perfect
black Juno, really superb in her air and physique, wearing her
neatly-folded yellow turban as if it were a golden crown. She
seldom took her eyes off the young mistress whom she fol-
lowed, except occasionally to frown at some impudent fellow
who stared too hard.

The group wended their way onward until they read the
names of " Raymond & Moore," in gilt letters over a new
four-story brick store of this thriving new town, and here they
lisappeared from the view of outsiders.

" Captain Wilde ! how do you do ? you're down early this
spring. Well, the mill's waiting for you to feed it. Come
down on a raft ? "

ON A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY. «1

" Yes, Mr. Raymond, a thundering big one. Brought my
(amily this time to give 'em a chance to pick out a few things
for themselves. My daughter, sir."

The merchant gave the young lady a chair. She took it,
mechanically, but her heart, her eyes, were asking one ques-
tion of the smiling, curious man, the friend and partner of her
own Philip, who for the first time began to suspect the cause
which had kept the latter so long, "hunting and fishing" up
at "Wilde's mill. Could he look so smiling, so assured, and
her Philip be dead? The cry: "Where is he?" trembled
silently on her lips.

" Yes, a thundering big raft we got out this spring. Wood-
choppers to work all winter," continued the raftsman, walking
along farther from his daughter, and speaking with apparent
carelessness. " By the way, where's Mr. Moore ? did he get
home safe, after his spell of sickness, at our house last fall ?"

" Ob, yes ! he got home safe and in fine spirits. He was
soon as well or better than ever. I expect he got pretty good
care," and the merchant glanced over at the young girl
respectfully.

Mr. Raymond was a good-hearted, refined young married
man ; but if he had been gross or impure, or not over-fastidious,
or fond of a jest, there was something about both father and
child to suppress all feelings but those of respect and wonder-
ing admiration, Alice Wilde's beauty was of a kind to defy
criticism. She might have worn sackcloth and ashes, or
flannel and thick boots, or a Turkish dress, or a Puritan maid-
en's, or a queen's robe, it would have made but small differ-
ence ; her loveliness was of that overmastering kind which
draws the hearts of high and low, and makes every man feel
in her presence, forgetful of every lesser consideration— lo !
here is a beautiful woman ! Such charms as hers have had
great power whenever they have been found— they have
exalted peasant women to thrones, and led men of genius and
rank, as if they were children, hither and thither. It is not
strange that Alice's personal loveliness, added to her still more
unusual unconsciousness of it, and infantile innocence, should
at once have commanded the reverence of people of the world
in spite of the quaintness of manner and attire, in themselves
pretty and piquant.

62 ALICE WILDE.

Although her father had spoken in a low voice, Alice had
heard his question and the answer. The splendor of happi-
ness broke over her countenance — blushes rose to her cheeka
and smiles to her eyes ; she hardly dared to glance in any
direction lest she should see her lover unexpectedly, and be-
tray her joy to strangers.

" Is he about the store this morning ; or will I have to go
to the mill to see him ?" asked the raftsman.

" You will not see him at all, this trip, I'm afraid. Mr.
Moore has gone on East ; he's been away several weeks now,
and I hardly know when to expect him. He was called there
quite unexpectedly, upon business connected with his uncle,
and their relatives in England. It would not surprise me at
all if he should bring a bride home — that is, if he can persuade,
his fair cousin that the West is not such a terrible savage
wilderness as she supposes."

Mr. Eaymond was perfectly honest in this remark. He
knew that Virginia Moore used to be the idol of his friend ;
and as Philip had not communicated the change in his ideas,
he still supposed that Philip was only waiting to get rich
enough to go home and marry her ; and as Philip was now
doing so well with his western enterprises, he had planned it
all out in his own imagination — fortune, acceptance, and the
happy finale of a grand wedding. He could not help looking
over at the pretty forester to see how she received the news,
but the portly person of the old colored woman had come
between them, and he could not see her face.

" Laws, Miss Alice, do see them yere calikers— they're sru-
perb ! Look at that red one with the blue flowers — 'tain't so
handsome though, as this with the yaller. My ! my ! thar's a
jewerlly shop across the way. Yer fadder ought to take yer
in dar', fust place. Young gals likes them places. Laws,
darlin', dis don't compare wid New York City. Le's have a
drink of water, and step over de street."

All this volubility was to screen the young girl from scru-
tiny. A pitcher of water stood on the counter, near her, and
she poured a glass for her mistress. But Alice waved the
glass away, and arose without any signs of grief and pain in
her face ; but the expression had changed — an icy pride com-
posed every feature ; she asked the merchant to show her some

HONEST INDIGMATIO.N. 0<5

of his goods in a clear, low tone as sweet as it was passionless.
Her hand did not tremble as she turned over silks and laces.

" Good for her ! She's got her father's grit," thought the
raftsman to himself, while his own throat swelled almost to
choking with anger and grief, and he felt that if he only had
Philip Moore within sight he would have the satisfaction of
of thrashing a little conscience into him.

Neither lie nor Alice any longer doubted the statements of
Ben Perkins. Mr. Moore had ridiculed them — had mockingly
given another permission to console her whom he had forsaken
— had said that he was going East to marry a more fit com-
panion. As the raftsman looked in the quiet face of his child
which repelled sympathy with a woman's pride — that pride so
terrible because it covers such tortured sensibilities — his blood
boiled up with ungovernable rage. He was not accustomed
to concealing his sentiments upon any subject.

" Let them finnified fixin's alone, Alice," he said, taking her
hand and drawing her away. " Men that make it a business
to handle that sort of thing, grow about as flimsy as their
wares. I despise 'em. I want you to understand, Mr. Ray-
mond, that all connection between me and this firm, business
or other, is dissolved. I won't even take your cussed money.
When Mr. Moore returns, tell him that the laws of hospitality
practised by your four-story-bricks ain't known in squatters'
cabins, and if he ever comes on my premises again I'll consider
myself at liberty to shoot him down for a dog ;" and before
the surprised merchant could reply he had strode forth.

" Come 'long, Saturn ! don' stan' dar' starin' ; don't yer see
masser's gone.? I shall be sorry I brought yer 'long ef yer
don't beL wid more propisciousness. What der s'pose
folks '11 tin* your missus and masser is, ef you don't act like a
fust -family nigger? Ef yer don't do credit to Miss Alice, I'll
nebber bring you 'way from home agin;" and Pallas took
"her nigger" by the elbow and drew him away from the
fascinating array of dry-goods and ready-made clothing.

That afternoon Captain Wilde and his daughter sat in a
little private sitting-room of the hotel, overlooking the street.
Every thing was novel to Alice. This was absolutely her
first experience away from her forest home. Yet upon all the
busy, bustling scene beneath her she gazed with vacant eyes.

G4 ALICE WILDE.

About the rapid rise and growth of some cf our western
cities there is an air peculiar to themselves — an experience
unique in the history of civilization. Situated amid scenes of
unparalleled beauty, they seem to jar upon and disturb the
harmony of their surroundings ; brick and plaster, new shingles,
and glowing white paint, unsubdued by time, rise up in the
midst of fairy-land ; rude wharves just over the silver waters
where erst the silent canoe of the Indian only glided ; wild
roses flush the hill-sides crowned with sudden dwellings;
stately old forests loom up as backgrounds to the busiest of
busy streets. The shrill cry of the steam-whistle startles the
dreamy whippoorwill ; the paddle-wheel of the intrusive
Steamboat frightens the indolent salmon from his visions of
peace. As the landscape, so the people ; curiously mixed of
rough and refined. Center City was one of the most pictur-
esque of these young towns ; and, at present, one of the most
prosperous. Broken-down speculators from the East came
thither and renewed their fortunes ; and enterprising young
men began life with flattering prospects.

It was upon the principal street that Alice sat and looked.
Streams of people hurried by, like the waves of the river past
her cabin in the wood. She saw ladies dressed in a fashion
differing widely from her own ; across the way, in a suite of
parlors in the second story, she saw, through the open blind,
a young girl of about her own age sitting at a musical instru-
ment, from which she drew, as if by magic, music that held
her listener as by golden chains. New thoughts and aims
came into the mind of the raftsman's daughter. Pride was
struggling to heal the wounds which love had made.

" Father, will you send me to school ?"

For a long time there was no answer ; his head was bent
upon his hand. She crept upon his knee, in her little-girl
way, and drew away the hand.

" It'll be undoin' the work of sixteen year to send you to
ine of them boarding-schools. They'll learn you plenty of
ranity and worse things, my child ; they'll make you unfit to
oe happy and contented with yer plain old father. But that
you arc already. I've made a failure. You're too good foi
them that's about you, and not good enough for them yo«
wish to be like. Go to school if you want to, child ; go, and

BOARDING-SCHOOL. 65

learn to put on airs and despise those who would give their
heart's blood for ye. I shall make no objections."

" Do you think I could learn to be so very bad, father ? If
you can not trust me, I will not go. So let us say no more
about it," and she kissed him.

" Thar', thar', child, I didn't mean to deny ye. But I feel
bitter to-day— hard and bitter— as I used to in days gone by,
when your mother died, turned off by them that were ashamed
of yer father. If you'll only keep like yer mother, you may
do what you will. She went to school, and she knew more
than a dozen fine-lady scholars ; but it didn't spoil her. May
be I've done wrong to bring you up the way I have — to visit
my experience and my doubts on your young head. We must
all live and learn for ourselves. Go to school, if you want to.
Til try and get along without my little cubbie for a year or
two."

" It's hard, father — hard for me — but I wish it." Pride was
steeling the heart of the forest maiden. " But are you able,
father; can you pay the expense."

This thought never came to her until after she had his
promise.

" Yes, I'm able — and if it's done, it shall be' done in the best
style. I haven't cut down all the pine timber I've set afloat
for the last fifteen year, without laying up somethimg for my
cub. I want you to dress as well as any you see, and study
whatever you like, and play lady to yer heart's content.
You'd better find a dress-maker, the first thing, and not be
stared at every time you step out of the door. Get yourself
Bilks and satins, girl, and hold your head up like the queen of
the prairie."

When Captain Wilde returned up the river, he and his sable
suite made a melancholy journey ; for the light of their eyes
the joy of their hearts, was left behind them.

A young ladies' seminary, " a flourishing young institution,
beautifully located in a healthy region, with spacious grounds
enjoying the salubrious river-breezes," etc., etc., held prisoner,
the wild bird of the forest.

" Where's your daughter ?" asked Ben Perkins of his em-
ployer, when he saw the returning party land without Alice,
His face was blanched to a dead-white, for he expected cer

C6 ALICE WILDB.

tainly to hear that she had Deen claimed as his bride by Philip
Moore.

" Yer stoiy was true, Ben, though I did ye the wrong to
doubt it. Alice will never be the wife of that counter-jumper.
But she'll never be yours, neither ; so you might as well give
up, first as last. Go off somewhere, Ben, and find somebody
else ; that's my advice."

" Look-a-here, Captain Wilde, I know you mean the best,
ami that my chance is small ; but I tell you, sir, jest as long
as Alice is free to choose, and I've got breath and sense to try
for her, I shan't give her up. Never, sir ! I'll work my
fingers off 10 serve you and her— I'll wait years — I'll do any
thing you ask, only so you won't lay any thing in my way."

The raftsman looked pityingly in the haggard face of the
speaker — the face which a year ago was so bright and boyish.
He saw working in those dark lineaments, in the swart blood
coursing under the olive skin, in the gleam of the black eyes,
passions difficult to check, which might urge him in future
years to yet other crimes than the one into which he had
already bieu betrayed.

" You're high-tempered, Ben, my boy, and a little too rough
to suit f; girl like mine. She knows what your temper has
already led you to do ;" and he looked straight at the youth
as he spoke, whose eyes wavered and sunk to the ground— it
was the first intimation he had had that his guilt was sus-
pected. " Why not go off, and find some one more like your-
self—some pretty, red-cheeked lass who'll think you the best
and handsomest fellow on the earth, and be only too happy to
marry you ? Thar's plenty such chances — and you'd be a
deal happier."

" Don't, do lot talk so I" burst forth Ben, impetuously. " 1
canH do it, and that's the end on 't. I've tried to get away,
but I'm bound here. It's like as if my feet were tied to this
ground. I've done bad things in my determination to keep
others away. I know it, and I owu up to it. I've been
ilcsp'rate— crazy ! But I ain't a bad fellow. If Miss Alice
would smile upon me, 'pears to me I couldn't be bad— 'pears
to n;:- Td try to get to be as good as she is. Even if she
never weald marry me, if she'd let me stay 'round and work
for you, aid she didn't take up with nobody else ~'d be con-

K THANKLESS CHILD.

67

tent. But if I have to give her up entirely, I expect I'll make
a pretty bad man, cap'n. I've all kinds of wicked thoughts
about i"t, and I can't help it, I ain't made of milk-and-water.
I'd rather light a bar' than court a girl. I shan't never ask
■mother woman to have me— no, sir 1 I'd 'ave made you a
£oocl son, if all hands had been willin'. But if Miss Alice
means to make herself a fine lady to catch some other sweet
'.adv-killcr like the one that's given her the mitten, it's her
choice. She'll up and marry somebody that won't speak to
her old father, I s'pose."

" Tlmr's no telling," answered the raftsman, sadly ; for, in
truth, the changed manner of his darling before he left her,
lay like a weight upon his memory and heart. He felt a
chord of sympathy binding him to the young man, as if theirs
was a common cause. Alice seemed to have receded from
them, as in a dream, growing more cold and reserved, as she
glided into the distance. Her trouble, instead of flinging her
more closely into her father's arms, had torn her from him,
and taught her self-control. She had deserted her home, had
left him to care for himself, while she fitted herself for some
sphere into which he could not come. That " sharper than a
serpent's tooth — a thankless child," he was tempted to call
her. Yet his heart refused such an accusation. She had
been suddenly shaken in her innocent faith in others, had
been wounded in pride and deserted in love — and her present
mood was the high reaction of the blow. I-ioeaatly she
would be herself again, would come back to hey fcosie and
her humble friends with the same modest, affec&l££itc, gentle
character as of old.

But he would treat her differently ; he would gratify her
love of the beautiful. She should have books, music, fine
furniture, fine clothes. He did not, ask himself what all these
would be worth without that paramount necessity of the
youthful mind- companionship. Alas ! the raftsman, bring-
ing up his idol in seclusion, had foolishly and selfishly though*
to fix her heart only upon himself; but the little bird had
learned to fly and had gone out of the parent nest, fluttering
out into the untried world, impelled by the consciousness of
wings.

ALICE WILDE.

CHAPTER IX.

A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER.

" You are rich, PhilLo !"

** Yes, Virginia, or soon shall be."

" How like a fairy-story it all sounds."

" Or a modern novel."

" We can be happy now, Philip /"

The two young people were leaning over the balustrade of
a balcony of the summer residence of Mortimer Moore. Th»
rich moonlight was still permeated with the rosy tinges of
sunset; the early dew called out the fragrance of a near
meadow in which the grass had been cut that clay, and its
odors were mingled with the perfumes of roses and lilies in
the garden beneath the balcony. It was an hour to intoxicate
the souls of the young and loving. If Virginia had been
dressing herself for a ball she would not have used more care
than she had shown in the simple afternoon toilet she now
wore — simple, and yet the result of consummate tact. A
6ingle string of pearls looped up the heavy braids of black
hair, an Indian muslin robe, in whose folds lurked precious
perfumes, floated about her form, the wide, full sleeves falling
away from the ivory arms, gave softness to their rounded out-
lines. A bunch of violets nestled in the semi-transparent
fabric where it was gathered over her bosom. The creamy
tint of her low, smooth forehead just deepened in her cheek
to that faint flush which you see in the heart of a tea-rose ;
her straight brows, long lashes, and the deep, dark eyes smil-
ing under them, all showed to wonderful advantage in the
delicious light.

As she uttered the last words, she laid her hand lightly
upon Philip's arm, and looked up into his face. He was fully
aware, at that moment, of her attractions ; a smile, the mean-
ing of which she could not fully fathom, answered her own,
is he said :

" I Jwpe we can be happy., my fair cousin. I expect to ba

THE LADY OF LYONS. 69

very much blessed as soon as a slight suspense which I endure
is done away with."
" "Why should you feel suspense, Philip ? every thing smiles

upon you."

" I see you are smiling upon me, my beautiful cousin ; and

that is a great deal, if not every thing. You always promised

to smile upon me, you know, if I ever got gold enough to

make it prudent."

" It seems to me as if there was sarcasm in your voice,
Philip. You know that I have always thought more of you
than any one else ; and if I would not marry you when poor,
it was because I dared not. Now we are equal— in fortune,
youth, health. My father is so much better. He was out
walking this afternoon ; the country air has benefited him.
The doctor thinks it may be years before he has another at-
tack. You've been very kind to him, Philip. When our
fortunes are joined, we can live almost as we please — as well
as I care to live. Won't it be charming ?"

The tapering white hand slid down upon his own.
" Very. You remember that trite passage in the Lady of
Lyons, which the mob, the vulgar crowd, are still disposed to
encore. Supposing we change the scene from the Lake of
Como to the banks of the Hudson — listen, Virginia! how
prettily senthaont sounds in this moonshine :

" ' A palace lifting to eternal summer

Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower

Of toolegt foliage, musical with birds,

Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon

We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder

Why earth should be unhappy, while the heavens

Still left us youth and love. We'd have no friends

That were not lovers ; no ambition, save

To excel them all in love — that we might smile

To think how poorly eloquence of words

Translates the poetry of hearts like ours.

And when night came, amidst the breudthless heavens

We'd guess what star should be our home when love '

Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light

Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps,

And every air was heavy with the sighs

Of orange-groves and music of sweeMutes,

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth

In the midst of roses ! Dost thou like the picture V

Go on, Virginia, can't you act your part ?"

70 ALICE WILDE.

" Let me sec, can I recall it ? —

" ' Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upo'.i the honey of thy eloquent tongue;
Am I not blest ? And if I love too wildly —
Who would not love thee like Virginia'?' "

" A very passable actress you are, cousin. I'd have thought
you really meant that, once, you put such fervor in your voice.
But—

" ' 0 false one !
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man.' "

" Nay, Philip, like Pauline, T must plead that you wrong
me. Already, before my father summoned yon, before we
tieard the whisper of your coming fortune, I had resolved to
search you out and take back my cruel resolution — more cruel
to myself than to you. I found that I had overrated my
powers of endurance — that I did not know my own heart.
Dear Philip, will you not forgive me ? Remember how I was
brought up."

Two tears glimmered in the moonlight and plashed upon
his hand. They ought to have melted a stonier susceptibility
than his.

"Willingly, Virginia. I forgive you from my heart— and
more, I thank you for that very refusal which you now re-
gret. If that refusal had not driven me into the wilds of the
West, I should never have met my perfect ideal of woman-
hood. But I have found her there. A woman, a child
rather, as beautiful as yourself — as much more beautiful,
as love is lovelier than pride ; an Eve in innocence, with a
soul as crystal as a silver lake ; graceful as the breezes and
the wild fawns ; as loving as love itself ; and so ignorant that
she does not know the worth of money, and didn't inquire
about the settlements when I asked her to marry me. Think
of that, Virginia !"

" Are you in earnest, Philip ?"

" I am. I am sorry for your disappointment, raj sweet
cousin, and hope you have not thrown away any eligible
ihances while waiting for me. I'm going to-morrow, as fast
as steam can cany me, to put an end to that suspense of
which I spoke. My little bird is deep in the western forests.
looking out for me with those blue eyes of hers, so wistfully

GIVING THE MITTEN. "31

for I promised to be back long ago. Your father's affairs are
in a tangled condition, I warn you, Virginia ; and you'd bet-
'.or make a good match while you've still the reputation of
oemi: an heiress. I've been trying to get my uncle's matters
rato shape for him ; but I'm quite discouraged with the re-
sult."

" Perhaps that's the reason you have forgotten me so easily,
Philip."

" I should expect you, my disinterested ami very charming
cousin, to entertain such a suspicion ; but my pretty iorester
lives in a log-cabin, and has neither jewels nor siik dresses.
So, you see, I am not mercenary. Her 'loveliness needs noi
the foreign aid of ornament' She looks better with a wild-
rose in her hair than any other lady I ever saw with a wreath
of diamonds."

" You are in a very generous mood, this evening, Philip
Moore. You might at least spare comparisons to the woman
you have refused."

" I couldn't inflict any wounds upon your Jieart, cousin ;
for that's nothing but concentrated carbon — it's yet beyond
the fusible state, and it's nothing now but a great diamond —
very valuable, no doubt, but altogether too icy cold in its
sparkle for me."

" Go on, sir. My punishment is just, I know. I remember
Then you were the pleader— yet I was certainly more merciful
than you. I tempered my refusal with tears of regret, while
you spice yours with pungent little peppery sarcasms."

" Don't pull those violets to pieces so, Virginia. I love those
Bowers; and that's the reason you wore them to-night. If
you'd have followed your own taste, you'd have worn japonica«.
But, seriously, I must go to-morrow. I have remained away
from my business much longer than I should ; but I could
not desert my uncle in his sickness and difficulties until I saw
him better. He was kind to me in my boyhood, he made
me much of what I am, and if he did not think me fitted to
cany the honors of his family to the next generation, I can
<still be grateful for what he did do."

" You do not give me credit for the change which has come
over me— if you did, you could not leave me so coolly. I'm
not so bound up in appearances as I was once. Ah, Philip I

72 ALICE WILDE.

this old country-house will be intolerably lonely when you are
gone."

He looked down into the beautiful face trembling with
emotion ; he had never seen her when she looked so fair as
then, because he had never seen her when her feelings were
really so deeply touched. The memory of the deep passion he
had once felt for her swept back over him, tumultuous as the
waves of a sea. Her cheek, wet with tears, and flushed with
feeling, pressed against his arm. It was a dangerous hour for
the peace of that other young maiden in the far West. Old
dreams, old habits, old hopes, old associates, the glittering of
the waves of the Hudson, familiar to him from infancy, the
scent of the sea-breeze, and the odors of the lilies in the home-
stead garden, the beautiful face upon his arm which he had
watched since it was a babe's rosy face in its cradle,— all
these things had power, and were weaving about him a rapid
spell.

" What does that childish, ignorant young thing know of
love, Philip ? If some rustic fellow with rosy cheeks, who
could not write his own name, had been the first to ask her,
she would have said ' Yes' just as prettily as she did to you,
But I have been tried— I know others, myself, and you. My
judgment and my pride approve my affection. Then the
West is »o place for a man like you. You used to be am-
bitious— to plan out high things for your future. I adore am-
bition in a man. I would not have him sit at my feet day and
night, and make no effort to conquer renown. I would have
him great, that I might honor his greatness. I would aspire
with and for him. You might be a shining light here, Philip,
where it is a glory to shine. Why will you throw yourself
away upon a rude and uncultivated community ? Stay here
a week or two longer and think better of the mode of life
you have chosen."

The moon hung in the heavens, high and pure, drawing
the tides of the ocean, whose sighs they could almost hear;
and like the moon, fair and serene, the memory of Alict
Wilde hung in the heaven of Philip's heart, calming the
earthly tide of passion w iich beat and murmured in his breast
He remembered thai touching assurance of hers that she
would sacrifice herself for him, at any time, and he could not

DEATH-BED REPENTANCE.

73

hink her iove was a chance thing, which would have been
given to a commoner man just as readily.

" I have tarried too long already, Virginia ; I must go to-
morrow."

He did not go on the morrow ; for while they stood there
upon the balcony in the summer moonshine, a servant came
hastily with word, that the master of the house was again
stricken down, in his library, as he sat reading the evening
paper.

He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an
unconscious state. Everybody seemed to feel, from the mo-
jient of his attack, that this time there was no hope of his
recovery. The family physician had only left him and re-
turned to the city a day or two previously. The evening
boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes ;
Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to
Xew York, and bring back the medical attendant by the re-
turn boat in the morning. Meanwhile he did what little he
could for the relief of the unconscious man, while Virginia,
pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosom withering beneath
the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside, holding
the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp.
Hours passed in this manner ; toward morning, while both
sat watching for some sign of returning sensibility to the
deathly features, the sufferer's eyes unclosed and he looked
about him with a wandering air —

" "Where is Alice ? Alice ! Alice ! why don't you come ?
I've forgiven you, quite, and I want you to come home."

" He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking
with awe into the eyes which did not recognize her, and
drawing her cousin nearer to her side.

" Don't tell me she is dead— Alice, the pride of my house—
»ot dead !"

" Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't
you do something to relieve him ?"

" Virginia, poor child ! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid.
Be brave, my dear girl, I will help you to bear it."

Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and
tenderness to the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only
him to cling to. Presently the wild look faded out of the
•ick man's eyes.

74 ALICE WILDE.

" Virginia, is that you ? My poor child, I am dying. Noth-
ing can save me now. I leave you alone, no father, no
mother, sister, or brother, or husband to care for you when I
am gone. Philip, are you here? will you be all these to
Virginia ? Do not hesitate, do not let pride control you in
this hour. I know that I rejected you once, when you asked
to be my son ; but I see my mistake now. You have been
very kind and unselfish to me since I sent for you. You are
a man of prudence and honor. I should die content, if I
knew Virginia was your wife, if you had not a thousand dol-
lars to call your own. Poor girl ! she will have very little,
after all my vain seeking of wealth for her. Gold is nothing
— Jiappiness is all. Virginia, take warning by me. I am a
witness of the hollowness of pride. I have been a sad and
discontented man for years. The memory of my cruelty to
my Alice has stood like a specter between me and joy.
Choose love— marry for love. Philip is more than worthy of
you ; try to make him happy. My boy, you do not speak.
Take her hand, here, and promise me that you will take good
care of my last and only child."

He had uttered all this in a low voice, rapidly, as if afraid
his strength would not last him to say what he wished Vir-
ginia turned to her cousin and seized his hand.

" Philip ! Philip ! can you refuse — can you desert me, too ?
O father ! I shall be alone in this world."

" Why do you not promise me, and let me die in peace ?"
exclaimed the old man with some of that stern command in
his voice which had become a part of him ; " do you not love
my child ?"

" Not as I did once. At least — but thai's no matter. Do
not distress yourself, uncle, about Virginia. I will be to her
a, true and faithful brother. I promise to care for her and
Bhare with her as if she were my sister."

" If I could see her your wife, my boy, I should feel repaid
for all I have done for you, since you were thrown upon my
hands, an orphan and friendless, as my child will soon be.
Bend for the priest, children, and make it sure."

Philip was silent ; his cousin, too, was silent and trembling.

" Don't you see I'm going ? — do you want to let me die un-
satisfied ?" — the querulous voice was weak and sinking.

THE ORPHAN GI11L. "J

« I promise to be a brother to Virginia— to care for her -a
if she were my own, uncle. Is not that enough ?"

" No— no— no !" fretted the dying man, who, having been
nnreasonablo and exacting all his life, could not change his
nature at the hour of death.

Distressed and uncertain what to do, tempted by the force
of circumstances, Philip wavered; but the moment when his
promise would have given his uncle any satisfaction had
passed— the awful change was upon his face, the sweat upon
his brow, the rattle in his throat.

" 0, my father !" sobbed Virginia, sinking upon ner knees
and Hinging her arms over the heart which had ceased to
beat.

The gray morning broke over her as she wept wildly be-
side the bed. Philip was obliged to draw her away from the
room by force, while others came to attend upon the dead.
To see her so given up to grief, so desolate, with no one but
himself to whom she could turn, touched him with pity and
tenderness.

" Weep, if you will, poor girl, it will be better than choking
back all those tears. Weep in my arms, for I am your brother
now," he said, very gently, as he seated her upon a sofa and
drew her head to his shoulder, soothing her and quieting her
excess of emotion, until, from fatigue and exhaustion, she
dropped asleep on his bosom.

" How lovely she is, with her arrogance and vanity all
melted away by some real sorrow," he thought, as he laid her
?arefully upon the pillow, and went out to give directions to
.he disturbed household.

During the next week Philip made himself of use to all,
overseeing, quietly directing and controlling every thing : and
when the funeral was over, the outer excitement subsided, and
nothing left but that emptiness and shadow of the house from
which the dead has recently been borne, then he iiad to con-
sult with the orphan girl what should be done for the future.

" Will you stay where you are for the summer, while I go
buck and attend to my affairs at the West ? If you will, I
can come back again in the autumn, and we can then decide
upon some settled plan for the future."

" I can stay here, if you think best. Eut it seems to me aa

76 ALICE WILDE.

if I shall go wild with fear and loneliness in this great house,
with no one but the servants, after you are gone. I don't
know what to do, Philip."

" Is there no friend of your own sex who would be comfort
and company, whom you could invite to stay with you till I
come back ? You will not wish to go into town this weather.
Besides, my dear girl, I must tell you that the town-house
will not be long in your hands. When the estate is settled
up, this property here, and a small annuity possibly, will be all
that I can save for you. "Will it not be best for you to break
up, dismiss the expensive array of servants, rent your house,
and board in some agreeable family ?"

" Oh, Philip, I don't know. I can't think and I can't decide,
I know nothing of business. I wish you to do every thing
for me ;" her helplessness appealed to him strongly.

She could only think of one way with which she should be
happy and content ; but he did not propose that way.

" I can only suggest this, then, for the present : stay where
you are now until I go home and arrange matters there. I
must go home for a few weeks. In the mean time the affairs
of the estate will be closing up. When I return, I will see to
them ; and when all is settled, if you wish to go to the West
with me, you shall go. If I h:ive a home by that time, you
shall share it."

" How share it, Philip ?"

He did not reply. He was resolved to see Alice Wilde
again, to satisfy himself her character was all he had dreamed
it — her love what he hoped ; if so, nothing should tempt him
from the fulfillment of the sweet promise he had made himself
and her — neither gratitude to the dead nor sympathy with the
living.

A. CHARMING PUZZLE.

CHAPTER X.

RECONCILIATION.

Alice Wilde had been taught by her father to "read,
write, and cipher," and was not ignorant of the rudiments of
some of the sciences ; for, curiously enough, considering sur-
rounding circumstances, there was quite a little library of
Dooks at the cabin-home, and some old-fashioned school-books
among the number. If, when she first went into the seminary
at Center City, some of the young ladies were disposed to
ridicule her extreme ignorance upon some matters, they would
be surprised by superior knowledge upon others ; and finally
were content to let her assert her own individuality, and be,
what she was — a puzzle; a charming puzzle, too, for her
kindness and sweetness made her beauty so irresistible that
they could look upon it without envy. Another thing which
helped her along both with teachers and pupils was the excel-
lence of her wardrobe and her lavish supply of pocket-money,
for it is tolerably well known that the glitter of gold conceals
a great many blemishes. Before tfie first term was over she
was the praise, the wonder, and the pet of the school ; flying
rumors of her great beauty and her romantic " belongings"
having even winged their way over the pickets which senti-
neled the seminary grounds, and wandered into the city.

The evening that Philip Moore reached home, after his
eastern journey, chanced to be the same as that upon which
the seminary began its annual exhibition, previous to closing
for the long August holiday. He would not have thought of
attending any thing so tiresome; but, taking tea with his
partner, whose pretty wife was going aad urged him to ao
company them, he was persuaded against his inclination.

" As you are already spoken of for mayor, Raymond, and
as I am one of the city fathers, I suppose we must show a
becoming interest in all the various 'institutions' which do

78 ALICE WILDE.

honor to our rising town," laughed Philip, as he coLsented to
extend with his Mends.

" I will be very encouraging, especially to the young ladies,
to see your wise and venerable countenance beaming upon
them," remarked Raymond.

"But really, Mr. Moore, there's somebody there worth
seeing, I'm told — somebody quite above the average of blue-
.ribbon and white-niuslin beauty. I've heard all kinds of
romantic stories about her, but I haven't seen her yet," chatted
the young wife. " She's the daughter of a fisherman, I be-
lieve, who's grown enormously rich selling salmon and white-
fish, and who's very proud of her. Or else she's an Indian
princess whose father dug up a crock of buried gold— or
something out of the common way, nobody knows just what."

Philip's heart gave a great bound. " Could it be ?" he ask-
ed himself. " No — hardly — and yet" — he was now as anxious
to be " bored " by the stupid exhibition as he had hitherto
been to escape it.

They took seats early in the hall, and had leisure to look
about them. Philip bowed to acquaintances here and there.
After a time he began to feel unpleasantly conscious of some
spell fastening upon him — some other influence than his own
will magnetizing his thoughts and movements, until he was
compelled to look toward a remote part of the room, where,
in the shadow of a pillar, he saw two burning eyes fixed upon
him. The face was so much in the shade that he could not
distinguish it for some time ; but the eyes, glowing and steady
as those of a rattlesnake, seemed to pierce him through and
transfix him. He looked away, and tried to appear indifferent,
yet his own eyes would keep wandering back to those singular
and disagreeable ones. At last he made out the face: it was
'hat of the young man who had brought him down from
Wilde's mill the last autumn. What was Ben Perkins doing
in such a place as this ? He began to feel certain who the
mysterious pupil was.

" She has thought to please and surprise me," he mused
" yet I believe I would rather she would have kept herself
just as unsophisticated as she was, until she learned the
world under my tutelage."

Young ladies came on to the stage, there was music and

THE SCHOOL EXHIBITION. «»

reading— but Philip was deaf, for ike was not amia tne grace-
ful throng.

At last she came. His own timid wild-flower, his fawn of
the forest, stole out into the presence of all those eyes. A
inuuaur of admiration could be heard throughout the hall.
She blushed, yet she was self-possessed. Philip gazed at her
in astonishment. Her dress, of the richest blue silk, the
flowers on her breast and in her hair, the bow, the step, the
little personal adornments, were all a la nwde. His wood-
land sylph had been transformed into a modern young lady,
lie was almost displeased— and yet she was so supremely fair,
such a queen amid the others, that she looked more lovely
than ever. He wondered if everybody had been teaching her
how beautiful she was. There was nothing of coquetry or
vanity in her looks — but a pride, cold and starry, which was
entirely new to her.

He turned to look at Ben Perkins, who had leaned forward
into the light so that his face was plainly visible ; and the
suspicions he had often entertained that the youth loved Alice
were confirmed by his expression at that moment.

" Poor boy ! how can he help it ?" thought the proud and
happy gentleman, regarding the untaught lumberman with a
kind of generous compassion. He now saw that Mr. Wilde
was sitting by Ben's side, his heart and eyes also fixed upon
the stage.

"I've seen that face before," whispered Mr. Raymond;
" where was it ? Ah, I remember it well, now. I can tell
you who she is, Philip. She's the daughter of Captain "Wilde,
that queer customer of ours, who hails from the upper country.
She's a glorious, remarkable girl ! By the way, Phil., did you
flirt with her ? Because I've a message for you. Capt Wilde
told me to inform you that if you ever set foot on his premises
again he should consider himself at liberty to shoot you."

" Flirt with her ! let me tell you, Raymond, I'm engaged
to her, and intend to marry her just as soon as I can persuade
her to set a day. I love her as deeply as I honor her
There's something gone wrong, somewhere, or her fathei
would not have left such word— he's a stern, high-tempered
man, but he does not threaten lightly. They could not havo
received mv letters."
6

80 ALICE WILDE.

" I presume I made part of the mischief myself," confessed
Raymond, " for almost the first thing I told them when they
entered my store this spring, was, that you had gone off to
marry your elegant cousin. You needn't look so provoked,
Phil. ; I told them in good faith. You used to love Virginia
in the days when you confided in me ; and if you'd have kept
up your confidence, as you should, I would have been posted,
and could have given your friends all the information they
■were in search of. Don't you see 'twas your own fault?"

" I suppose it was," replied Philip, with a smile, but still
feeling uneasy, and oh, how intensely anxious to get where hi
could whisper explanations to the heart, which he now saw,
hail suffered more in his absence than he could have dreamed.
Henceforth his eyes were fixed only upon Alice. Soon sht
perceived him ; as their eyes met, she grew pale for a moment,
and then went on with her part more calmly than ever. To
him, it seemed as if they both were acting a part ; as if they
had no business in that hour, to be anywhere but by each
other's side ; he did not even know what share she had in tbc
performances, except that once she sung, and her voice, full,
sweet, melancholy, the expression of the love-song she was
singing, seemed to be asking of him why he had been so cruel
to her.

The two hours of the exercises dragged by. The people
arose to go ; Philip crowded forward toward the stage, but
Alice had disappeared. He lingered, and presently, when she
thought the hall was vacated, she came back to see if hei
father had waited to speak with her. He was there ; other
parties were scattered about, relatives of the pupils, who wished
to speak with them or congratulate them. She did not see
him, but hurried dowu the aisle to where her father and Ben
were standing. She looked pale and fatigued — all the pride
had gone out of her air as the color had gone out of her
cheek.

" Alice ! dear Alice !" exclaimed Philip, pressing to her
side, just as she reached her father.

Instantly she turned toward him with haughty calmness.

" Mr. Moore. Allow me to congratulate vou. Was thai
your bride sitting by your side during the exercises."

" That was Mrs. Raymond, my partner's wife. But what a

THE LETTER.

81

rtrange question for ym to ask, Alice. I supposed you had
consented to take that name, if ever any one. Mr. Wilde, I
received your message through Mr. Raymond, hut I knew you
were once too sincere a friend of mine, and are always too
honorable a man, to refuse me a chance of explanation."
" Say your say," was the raftsman's curt reply.
" You need not speak one word, Philip. It is I who ought
to beg your forgiveness, that I have wronged you by doubting
you. Love— oh, love, should never doubt— never be deceiv-
ed !" exclaimed Alice.

" It would have taken much to have disturbed my faith in
you, Alice."

" Because I had every motive for loving you ; while you —
vou had pride, prejudice, rank, fashion, every thing to struggle
igainst in choosing me."

" Indeed !" cried Philip. " Yes, every thing, to be sure !'
and he cast such an expressive glance over her youthful love
liness that she blushed with the delicious consciousness of he*"
own charms. "Old, ugly, awkward, and ignorant, how
ashamed I shall be of my wife !"

" But, Philip !" her tearful eyes, with the smiles flashing
through them, made the rest of her excuses for her.

Holding her hand, which was all the caress the presence of
strangers would permit, Philip turned to the raftsman.

" I asked you for your daughter's hand, in the letter which
I sent you on the return of the young man who brought me
from your home, last autumn, since your sudden change of
plans prevented my asking you in person. I have not yet
had your answer."

When he said "letter" Alice's eyes turned to Ben, who had
been standing within hearing all this time ; he met her ques-
tioning look now with one of stubborn despair.
" You gave us no letters, Ben."

Philip also turned, and the angry blood rushed into his face.
" Did you not deliver the letters I sent by you, young man ?"
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! no, by thunder, I didn't i Did you think
a man was such a fool as to help put the halter round his
own neck ? I didn't give the letters, but I told all the lies I
could to hurt you, Philip Moore You ought to be a dead
man now, by good rights. The game's not up yet. Let me

82 ALICE WILDE.

tell you that, !" and scowling at the party, he strode away
into the night.

" He ought to be arrested — he is a dangerous fellow," said
Mr. Wilde, looking after him uneasily.

" 1 am sorry for him," said Philip, " but that can do hiiu
no good."

" Look out for him, Philip ; you can not be too wary— he
will kill you if he gets a chance. Oh, how much trouble that
desperate boy has given me. I can not be happy while I
know he is about."

'; Thar', thar', child, don't you go to getting nervous again
We'll take care of Ben. Don't you trouble your head about
him."

" If you could guess what I have suffered this winter past,"
whispered Alice, pressing closer to her lover.

" My poor little forest-fawn," he murmured. " But we must
stop talking here; eavesdroppers are gathering about. I
suppose this ogre of a seminary will shut you up to-night;
but where shall I see you to-morrow, and how eal'ly ? I have
yet to explain my absence to you and your father — and I'm
eager, oh, so eager to talk of the future as well as the past."

"Meet us at the Hotel Washington, at my room," re-
plied Mr. Wilde, speaking for her. " We will be there at nine
o'clock in the morning. And now good-night, puss. You
did bravely to-night. I'm going to see Philip safe home, so
you needn't dream of accidents."

Alice kissed her father good-night. That she wanted to
kiss his companion too, and that he Avanted to have her, was
evident from the lingering looks of both; but people were
looking askance at them, and their reluctant hands were
(Obliged to part.

That night the store of Raymond & Moore was discovered
to be on fire ; the flames were making rapid headway when
the alarm was given ; it was the hour of night when sleep is
soundest, but the alarm spread, and persons were thundering
at the door and windows in two minutes.

" Does any one sleep in the store ?" shouted one.

" Yes ! yes ! young Moore himself— he has a room at the back.

" Why don't he come out then ? He'll be burned alive.
Burst in the doors. Let us see what has happened him."

fere! fire! 83

" The fire seems to come from that part of the building.
He will surely perish."

The crowd shouted, screamed, battered the doors in wild
excitement — some ran round to the back, and a ladder was
placed at the window of his room, which was in the second
story. Light shone from that room. David "Wilde, whose
hotel was not far distant, mingling with others who rushed
out at the alarm, as is the custom in provincial towns, was the
first to place his foot upon the ladder ; his strength was great,
and he broke in the sash with a stroke of his fist, leaped into
the building, appearing in a moment with the young man,
whom he handed down to the firemen clambering up the
ladder after him.

"He's nigh about suffocated with the smoke — that's alL
Dash water on him, and he'll be all right presently," he cried
to those who pressed about. " It's that Ben, I know — cuss
me, if I don't believe the boy's crazy," he muttered to
himself.

Philip soon shook off the stupor which had so nearly
resulted in the most horrible of deaths, and was able to help
others in rescuing his property. The fire was got under with-
out much loss to the building, though its contents suffered
from smoke and water. The young firm was not discouraged
by this, as all loss was covered by insurance ; they had the
promise of a busy time " getting to rights" again, but that was
the worst.

It was apparent, upon examination, that the fire was the
work of an incendiary ; Philip felt, in his heart, what the guilty
intention was, and shuddered at his narrow escape. It was
decided by him and Mr. Wilde to put the authorities upon the
proper track ; but the perpetrator had fled, and no clue could
be got to him in the city. Mr. "Wilde at once suspected he
had gone up the river, and feeling that they should have no
peace until he v, as apprehended, and not knowing what mis-
chief he might do at the mill, he took the sheriff with him and
started for home, leaving Alice, for the present, at the school,
with permission of the principal to see her friends when she
chose, as it was now vacation. Before he left there was a
long consultation between the three — Philip, Alice, and her
father. Philip explained his absence. As he went on to

84 ALICE WILDE.

speak of Mortimer Moore and his daughter, of his death, the
troubled state of the family affairs, etc., the raftsman betrayed
■i keener interest than his connection with those affairs would
seem to warrant.

" Poor Virginia ! she is all alone, and she is your cousin,
Philip," said Alice.

" She tried hard to get back her old power over me, Alice.
You must beware how you compassionate her too much.
But when we are married, and have a home of our own, we
will share it with her, if you consent. I've no doubt she can
find somebody worthy of her, even in this savage West, as she
thinks it. And, by the way, I think we ought to get a homa
of our own as soon as possible, in order to have a shelter to
offer my cousin — don't you, Alice?"

" She's tongue-tied. Girls always lose their tongues when
they need 'em the most."

" Now, father, I should think you might answer for me,"
said Alice, trying to raise her eyes, but blushes and confusion
would get the better of her, and she took refuge in her fa-
ther's lap.

" Well, puss, I s'pose you want to go to school five or six
years yet — tell him you've made your cacklations to keep in
school till you're twenty-two."

" School ! I'll be your teacher," said Philip.

" Choose for yourself, puss. I s'pose the sooner you shake
off yer old father, the better you'll like it."

" I shan't shake you off, father. Neither shall I leave you
alone up there in the woods. That matter must be settled at
the start. I shall never marry, father, to desert you, or be an
ungrateful child."

" Suppose we arrange it this way then. We will live with
■your father in the summer, and he shall live with us in the
rinter. I don't want a prettier place than Wilde's mill to
spend my summers in."

"Oh, that will be delightful," exclaimed the young girl,
and then she blushed more deeply than ever at having be<
trayed her pleasure.

" Then don't keep me in suspense any longer, but tell ma
if you will get ready to go back to New York with me in the
latter part of September. We will be gone but a few weeks,

THE DAT SETTLED.

85

and can be settled in the new mansion I've given orders for,
before the winter is here. Shall it be so ?"

" Say ' yes,' cubbie, and done with it, as long as you don't
ntend to say ' no.' I see she wants to say ' yes,' Mr. Moore,
and since it's got to be, the sooner the suspense is over, the
better I'll like it ;" and with a great sigh, the raftsman kissed
the forehead of his child and put her hand in that of Philip.
With that act he had given away to another the most
cherished of his possessions. But children never realize the
pang which rends the parent heart, when they leave the
parent nest and fly to new bowers. " All I shall be good for
now, will be to keep you in spending-money, I s'pose. You're
going to marry a fashionable young man, you know, cubbie,
and he'll want you tricked out in the last style. How much
can you spend before I get back V" and he pulled his leather
money-bag out of his pocket.

" I haven't the least idea, father."

" Sure enough, you haven't. You'll have to keep count of
the dollars, when you get her, Mr. Moore; for never having
been indulged in the pastime of her sex, going a-shopping, she
won't know whether she ought to spend ten dollars or a
hundred. Like as not, she'll get a passion for the pretty
amusement, to pay for having been kept back in her infancy.
You'd better get some of your women friends to go 'long with
you, puss. Here's, then, for the beginning." He poured a
handful or more of gold into her lap.

" Nay, Mr. Wilde, you need not indulge her in any thing
beyond your means, upon my account, for — although she may
have to conform to more modern fashions, as she has already
done, since moving among others who do — she will never look
so lovely to me in any other dress, as in those quaint, old-
fashioned ones she wore when I learned to love her. Am]
Alice, whatever other pretty things you buy or make, I request
you to be married in a costume made precisely like that you
wore last summer — will you ?"

The raftsman heard, two or three times, on his way up the
river, from boatmen whom he hailed, of Ben's having been
seen only a little way ahead of him, and he, with the sheriff,
had little doubt but they should capture him immediately upon
their arrival <it Wilde's mill. But upon reaching their desti-

86 ALICE WILDB.

nation they could not find him. The men had seen him
hovering about the mill, and Pallas had given him his dinner
T>nJy a few hours before, when he came to the house, looking,
as she said, "like a hungry wild beas', snatching what I
give him and trotting off to de woods agin."

Help was summoned from the mill and the woods scoured ;
but no farther trace of the fugitive could be discovered. They
kept up the search for a week, when the sheriff was obliged
to return. David Wilde wished to believe, with the officer,
that Ben had fled the country and gone off to distant parts;
but he could not persuade himself to that effect. He still felt
aa if the unseen enemy was somewhere near. However,
nothing further could be done ; so cautioning the house-serv-
ants to keep a good watch over the premises, and the mill-
hands to see that the property was not fired at night, or other
mischief done, he returned for his daughter.

" Give Pallas this new dress to be made up for the ocoasion,
and tell her to be swift in her preparations, for the time is
short. It will be a month, Alice, before I see you again— a
whole, long month— and then I hope for no more partings.
I shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Raymond to the wedding, with
your permission," said Philip, with other parting words, which
being whispered we can not relate, as he placed her on thr
sail-boat, well laden down with boxes and bales containing
the necessary " dry-goods and groceries " for the fete.

" We'll charter a steam-tug next time," growled the rafts-
Van, looking about him on the various parcels.

PAILAS IN HER CLOKY. *T

CHAPTER XI.

A. MEETING IN THE "WOODS.

Pallas was in " her elements." There's nothing a genu-
ine cook likes so well as to be given carte blanche for a wed-
ding. If the Wildes had invited a hundred guests to stop
with them a fortnight, she would hardly have increased the
measure of her preparations. No wonder the old eouI was
happy in the prospect of the really excellent match her dar-
ling was to make, as well as in the promise that she wan to
go with her and take the culinary department of the new
household under her charge.

'' We's goin' to lib soon whar' de clo'es massa gives us '11
do us some good, Saturn. We can go to meetin' once more
like 'spectable colored quality should. An' de house '11 be
bran new, and I'm to keep de ke}rs of all de closets myself—
and young missus will set at de head ob de table, wid plenty
of silber, as my missuses have allcrs done. An' you'll have
to have some pride about you, and get obcr bein' so sleepv.
Nebber hear nor see any ting so cur'us as we goin' back into
dat berry family. Now, Saturn, don't you let me cotch you
cookin' or eatin' a single egg, 'cause I want 'cm sill f<;r cake.
Masscr only brought home twenty dozen, which ain't near
enough. I want ebery one dem pullets lays. An' you feed
'em chickens up good and fat an' dem wild turkeys in de
pen. Dis isn't a bad country for a cook, arter all. I've been
reck'nin' up, an' I find we can have wild turkey and par-
tridges and salmon and ven'sen and chicken, and masser's
brought home ebery ting from de grocery-stores a pusson
could ask. Whar's dat citron now ? Saturn, has you been
n dat citron ? Laws, I cotch you in dat, you'll nebber forget
it ! Stop eatin' dem raisins ! I declar' to gracious, ef I trus'
Jou to chop a few raisins for me, you eat half of 'em up.
Cl'ar out de kitchen — immejetly ! I'd rudder get 'long alone."

8£ ALICE WILDE.

Poor Saturn had to " fly round" more than was agreeable
lo his temperament ; but he contrived to keep up his strength
and his spirits upon stolen sweets, and he tried to be excess-
ively useful.

" Wall, wall, his arpetite does beat all; he's gettin' ole and
childish, my nigger is, and I s'pose I mus' humor him a little.
His heart is set on de good tings ob dis worl' I'se 'fraid he'll
hate to gib up eatin' and sleepin' when he comes to die. Dar
ain't no eatin' and drinkin' tliar, Saturn; no manyin' nor
givin' in marriage."

" Wha' for ? is eatin' wicked, Pallas ?"
" " Not on dis yearth, where it is a necessary evil. But dair
— dar's better tings. We'll sing dar, Saturn," she continued,
anxious to rekindle the religious ardor which she was fearful
of cooling by her picture of the purely spiritual pleasures of
the next world. " We'll set under de tree ob life, by side de
beautiful ribber, and sing all de hymns and psalms ;" and she
struck up, in a voice of rich melody,

"' 0 Canaan, my happy home,
Oh, how I long for thee !"

while her husband joined in the strain with equal fervor.

Alice loved to hear them singing at their work ; not only
because of their musical voices, but the enthusiasm, the joy
and expectation swelling through them, awakened her own
young soul to hope and prayer.

A happier face than hers, as she sat in the little parlor,
sewing upon the wedding-garments, it would be difficult to
find — a kind of intense radiance from the utter content and
love within shone through her features. When a young girl
is about to marry the man she loves, with the full approval
of her judgment and conscience, the consent of parents and
friends, when her heart is full of hopes, when she blushes in
solitude at her own happy thoughts, as she sits quietly sewing
upon rich and delicate fabrics which are to enhance her
beauty in hit eyes, then she experiences the most blessed por-
tion of her life.

The sunshine of promise rested upon the house. All its
delightful activity -svas pervaded by thrilling anticipations.
And yet thera was a shadow — a light shadow, which at times

A GHOST W THE WOODS. 89

would darken and again entirely disappear. It was the dread
of Ben. The men at the mill reported having caught glimpses
of some one whom they were quite sure was him, at different
times, in different lonely places in the forest.

Saturn came in, one day, with the whites of his eyes of
frightful circumference, averring that a ghost had run after
him in the woods. What could be the purpose of a person
thus hovering about in concealment ? surely nothing good.
Alice was not herself, personally, much afraid. She did not
think Ben would harm her, but she felt that he was hanging
about, that his eyes watched every preparation, that he would
know when Philip came, and she was afraid he would have
another opportunity to attempt his life. The courage which
would not quail on the battle-field will fail before a secret and
unknown evil. Even the raftsman, brave and powerful as he
was, felt that uneasiness which springs from such a source.
Many a time he went out with his rifle on his shoulder, re-
solved that if he met with the wretched and desperate youth,
he would deal with him severely. His search was always in
vain. Alice gave up all her rambles, much as she longed to
get again into the heart of the whispering pine-forest.

One afternoon, when her father was at the mill, and Pallas
as usual, busy in the kitchen, as she sat sewing and singing
to herself in a low voice, the bright room suddenly grew dark
and looking up at the open window, she saw Ben standing there
gazing at her. If she had not known of his vicinity, ski
would not have recognized him at the first glance ; his face
was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his hair long and tangled, his
clothing soiled and worn.

" Don't scream !" he begged, as he saw that she perceived
him, in a voice so hollow that it checked the cry rising to her
lips. " I ain't going to harm you. I wouldn't harm a hair
of your head — not to save the neck yer so anxious to see
hanging from the gallows. I know where your father is, and
I just crept up to have a look at you. You look happy and
content, Alice Wilde. See me ! how do you like your
work ?"

" It is not my work, Ben, and you know it. Do not blame
mc. I pity you ; I pray for you. But do go away from
here — do go ! I would rather you would harm me than

90 ALICE WILDE.

to harm those I love. Oh, if you really care for me, go away
from this spot — leave me to my happiness, and try and be
Happy yourself. Be a man. Go, Ben— let us alone. If you
do not go, you will certainly be taken by others, and perhapf
punished."

" Catch a weasel asleep, but you can't catch me. You may
put twenty men on the watch. How pleasant it must be for
you to sit here making your weddin'-clothes ; I think of it
nights, as I lay on the hemlock boughs, with my eyes wide
open, staring up at the stars. What's that song I used to
like to hear you sing so well, Alice ?

" ' They made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true ;
And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where, all night, long, by the fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her light canoe.' "

The maiden shuddered to her heart's core as his voice rose
wild and mournful in the sweet tune to which the ballad was
set. " Ha ! ha ! Alice, it's the same little canoe that you used
to come up to the mill in so often, in those pleasant old
times —

" ' And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
Her paddle I soon shall hear ;
Long and loving our life shall he,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,
When the footstep of death is near.' "

Alice seemed to be listening to her own dirge ;

" ' Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds —
His path was rugged and sore :
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before !' " —

and with an unearthly shriek he bounded away through tha
garden and into the woods, leaving Alice so overcome, that
Pallas, who had been attracted to the door by the strange
voice, brought her the " camfire" bottle to restore her.

" He's a ravin' maniac, that poor boy is, my chile. He
ought to be cotch'd and put in de 'sylum at onct 'fore harm's
done. Mercy, chile, I was jus' goin' to take down de rifle to
'fend my pickaninny. 1 was 'fraid he'd far you all to pieces,
like a ragin' wild beas'."

THE! l'Al'ltOli BVAKD. 91

" You wouldn't have had courage to fire, would you ? I'm
sure I shouldn't."

" In course I should have had courage. S'pose I'd stan'
by and see my chile toted off into the woods by a madman ?
Tush ! even a hen '11 fight for her chickens. Ef I hadn't a
ride, I'd spring on 'em, tooth and nail, ef he laid a hand on
my chile ;" and the old negro woman breathed hard, holding
herself erect, and looking so determined, that she inspired
courage in the one who regarded her.

" Then I shall choose you for my body-guard," said Alice,
" for I begin to feel like a poor little chick in a big field, with
an unseen hawk in the air which might pounce on it at any
time. Oh, Pallas, didn't he look fearful ?"

" Awful, missus, awful ! We can't be too kerful of a fan-
atick — and poor Ben's got to be one, sure 'nuff." Poor Ben i
a year ago he was as merry a young pusson as dese yere ole
eyes car' for to see ; and so willin' and kind, allers lookirf
out to do a little sarvice, bringin' us game and berries, and
makin' us furnitur' and fixin's about de house, — ready to work
all day, jus' to hab you say, ' Tank you, Ben,' or gib him one
smile. I jes' wish dis weddin' was safe ober. I has a sense
as suthin' is goin' to happen. And you know, chile, when
ole Pallas has a sense, it allers comes to suthin'."

"Don't tell me of it, if you have, Pallas, for I'm nervous
enough already. There comes father now. I feel safe when
he is near."

Upon hearing her account of Ben's looks and words, the
raftsman resolved more firmly than ever to take him into
custody if possible. Leaving Pallas, who was a better man.
than her husband, with a double-barreled gun, to defend tht
house, if necessary, in their absence, he summoned his fuh
force and hunted the woods for twenty-four hours without
success. He then stationed two men in the outskirts, in view
of the house, to be relieved every eight hours by two others,
and to keep up the watch, on double wages, day and night,
till the enemy was taken or the wedding over.

On the third day of his watch, one of the men, while stand'
ing by the garden-fence, eating his lunch, his rifle leaning
against the rails beside him, was suddenly knocked down, and
by the time he got upon his feet again, he saw Ben Perkiai

92 ALICE WILDE.

vanishing into the forest with the weapon on hia diouldcL
The news of this mishap was any thing but encouraging, for
1 he chances of his doing mischief were increased tenfold by
the fact of his having possession of a loaded gun. Yet Alice
Bung and sewed, praying silently to Heaven that all might be
well, and, happy in the faith and hope of youth, went on with
her preparations ; and Pallas finished shelves full of frosted
cake and other niceties ; and Saturn hewed wood and brought
water, receiving his reward as he went, from his wife's benev-
olent hand ; and Mr. Wilde was alert and vigilant, ready for
all emergencies.

• It was now near the middle of September ; the blackberries
were gone ; and the grapes were yet green and unpalatable.
Tallas was in want of wild-plums to pickle, and of wild-mint
to flavor some of the dressings for dishes yet to be cooked.
She set forth into the woods, having no occasion for personal
fears, and not finding what she desired, wandered further into
their depths than she had intended. Suddenly she started,
with a—" Hi ! hi ! what's this ?"

" If you've any thing in that basket a starving man can eat,
give it to me." It was Ben Perkins who spoke, from behind
a fallen tree, where he was crouching, lifting his emaciated
face to her view.

" I hab nothin' at all ; and ef I had, why should I gib it to
you, when you'se makin' us all de trouble you can ?"

" You've turned against me, too, Aunt Pallas," he said, in
50 hopeless a tone, that she paused from her purpose of getting
away as fast as she could. " I've done you many favors in
days gone by ; I've never refused to lend you a helpin' hand,
and I've never done nothin' to injure you; but you, too, will
try to get me on to the gallows. Go and tell 'em where I
a;n, if you want to. I don't know as I've strength to get
away any longer. It's a week sence any thing has passed my
lips but a nest full of bird's-eggs I climbed up after yesterday.
6ay, won't you bring me a piece of bread ?"

" You go home wid me, and behabe yourself, and you shall
tab all de bread you want. Nobody's starving you but your-
self."

" Ha ! ha ! you're a cute 'un, ain't you now ? I don't
think I shall put my foot into that trap."

A HUNGRY MAN. 93

" Well, den, you gib me dat gun what you've got thar'.
Gib me dat gun and I'll bring you sutliin' to eat, and won't
tell where you arc."

" Xo— no 1 yon can't come that game."
" You doesn't s'posc I'd bnrg you any ting to eat or help
keep you alive, when you're tryin' yer bes' to kill my masser's
frien's, do ye ? It's you is foolish, Ben. "What for you be so
bad, so wicked for, Ben ? You use to be a nice boy. I like
you berry much a year ago. I can't bar' to see you hurtin'
yerself so — let alone odders. Come, now, yer gib me back dat
gun, an' ac' like a man 'stid of a wil' beas', and I'll do all I
can for you, sartain sure, Ben."

" Pallas, I tell you, I'm starving. I want somethin' to eat.
Let that gun alone. I swear to you, I won't use it on any of
your family. I wouldn't hurt a hair of Alice's head — nor her
father's. But I want that rifle — it's none of your business
why. Won't ye give me sutliin' to eat, for the sake of old
times, Pallas ?"

That miserable, hungry, beseeching look — how could she
refuse it ?

" You've acted like a crazy man, Ben, and you've done
berry wrong to yourself as well as odders. I can't help you,
'less you promise to do better. Gib me dat gun, and take
yer Bible oath you'll never try to hurt him that's to be Miss
Alice's husband, an' I'll help you all I can."

" Why should I promise not to harm him ? hasn't he done
all he could to injure me ? hadn't I ought to kill him if I can
wouldn't it be right and justifiable for me to take his heart's
blood ? — as he's taken mine, but in a different way. I was a
homeless, poor, hard-workin' young man, with nuthin' but
my bands to rely on. I hadn't no education, I hadn't no
money, but I loved the captain's daughter — I worshiped her
shadow. She'd have been mine — I know she would— if he
hadn't come along and got her away from me. He, who had
every thing, came and robbed me of the only thing I cared to
have. He used his education and his money and his fine
frays to steal my only hope. As soon as he come hangin'
round I was nuthin' — Miss Alice walked right over me to get
in his arms. I tell ye, that man has robbed me and wronged
me and murdered me as it were. I ought to be revenged."

94 ALICE WILDB.

" You is wuss den crazy, Ben Perkins ; and I'll tell yc de
trute, if ye get as mad as fire at me for it. 'Tain't noways
likely my missus would eber 'ave taken up wid ye, if Philip
Moore had neber seen her. She's a lady, born and bred ; she
came of a high family — and it was in her blood. She wouldn't
neoer nave taken up wid you. She liked you, and we all
liked you ; but she wouldn't a married you. You'd no busi-
ness to 'spect she would. It's you is all de wrong. Den when
a young man what is suitable to her comes along, and can't
no more help fallin' in love wid her sweet face den you can,
when he loves her, and wants to marry her, and she love9
Jiim, as she naturally would, you get wicked and ugly, and
want to kill him. Fie, man ! you don't love her ! Ef you
did, you couldn't neber break her heart, killing her husband
as is to be. "What would you gain by it ? 'Stid of likin' and
pityin' you, she'd shudder to hear your name, and she'd wilt
away and die, and you'd be her murderer, well as his. For
shame ! call dat love ? Why, ef you really loved her, you'd
try to make her happy, and seein' you couldn't hab her, you'd
be glad she got de man she like bes'. You is a bad fellow,
Ben Perkins, and you jus' show how lucky it is Miss Alice
didn't take up wid you."

"She thinks I'm so bad, too, doesn't she?— oh, yes, of course
she must ; she must hate me, and wish me dead. I know it,
but I couldn't help it. Oh, Pallas, tell her not to think too hard
of me. I was never well brought up. I'd only my wild pas-
sions to guide me. I've clone wrong only because my heart
was so set upon her. Yet I've struggled against temptation—
I've tried to wish she could be happy without me. Tell her,
when I was on the river alone with Philip Moore, I might
have put him out of the way, but for her sake I wouldn't do
it. Often and often as we sat together in that little boat,
alone on the water, the devil in my heart set me on to strangle
him and throw him overboard, I don't know why I didnt
do it, 'ceptin' it seemed as if Alice's eyes was lookin' at me
and wouldn't let me do it. One night he was asleep, his
head on his arm, and I was bending over him — my hand was
on his throat, when sJie took hold of me and held me back.
I seen her as plain as I see you now. She had on a long,
white dress, and her hair was streamin' .down her shoulders,

PALLAS EXHORTS. 95

tad her feet was bare. She looked at me so — I couldn't stand
it; and I made up my mind never to lay hands on that per
gon again. And I felt so much more like a man, I could looir
her straight in the face agin, when I got back. But I told
lies, and tried to get in her good graces. Do you think that
was so very bad, under the circumstances, Aunt Pallas ? I
never meant to do nuthin' worse; but when I seen all my
plans knocked in the head, and that person meeting her agin
and making up, and she lookin' so like an angel, and so proud
and happy, and all of 'em casting scornful eyes on me, the
devil broke out again worse 'an ever, and I set fire to Philip
Moore's store, hopin' to burn him up ; and since then I've
been about as desp'rate as a man ever gets to be. Part the
time I'm as good as crazy, I think such thoughts out here in
the woods alone— and agin I'm quite cool and reflect all over
my bad conduct. I'd take it all back, if I could, for 7ier sake ;"
and he burst out weeping.

" Yer poor, mis'able soul, I pity you. But I mus' say you
did wrong. 'Tain't too late to repent and be saved. Gib up
all dose wil', wicked feelin's, be resigned to de will ob Provi-
dence which doesn't allow of your having the girl you happen
to love fust. 'Tain't for us to hab all we want in dis yere
worl'. 'Tain't for us to revenge our enemies. Chris' says do
good to dem dat despitefully use yer. And nobody has used
you bad. He says love your enemies. O Ben ! Ben ! ef,
instid of bein' de wicked bein' you has, you had prayed to da
Lord Jesus to sabe yer from temptation, and sence yer couldn't
be happy in dis life, to make yer good, yer wouldn't be hidin'
here in dis state. People has had troubles 'fore yer. Don't
tink yer de only one, poor boy. Dar's plenty of tears for
Chris' to wipe away on dis yearth."

" I don't know nuthin about it. I've never been taughf
'Tain't nateral for a man to love his enemies. I can't do it.
But if I thought you'd pity me and pray for me — if I thought
Miss Alice would pray for me, I'd give up wicked thoughts,
and try to govern myself."

" She does pray for yer, Ben, wid all her heart every time
Bhe prays. I've seen her cry about yer many time. She'd
gib her right hand mos', to hab you good and happy. Masser'a
eorry for yer, too ; he tought so much of you once ; but course

7

96 ALICE WILDE.

he can't let you kill his friends. Come, now, Ben, you prom-
ise to do right, and I'll stan' by yer tru thick and thin."

" Some of the time I'm good, and agin I'm bad. I didn*
use to be so. It's only wretchedness has made me so ugly
I don't know how to try to be better."

" May I pray for you, Ben."

" Yes — if you want to be such a fool," he said, reluctantly.

The good old colored woman went down on her kneeb
there upon the mossy cushion of the earth, pouring out her
soul in prayer for the haggard being, who sat, with his chin
in his hands, listening to her appeal in his behalf. Tears
streamed down her cheeks ; the earnestness, the pathos of her
sincere petitions to that great Father whom she seemed to
believe had power to comfort and take care of him and adopt
him as a child, touched his lonely, sullen, misanthropic nature
— his sobs accompanied her " Amen !"

" I shouldn't be such a baby as to cry," he said, when she
had finished, " if I wasn't so weak ; but when a fellow's fasted
a week he ain't none of the bravest. I thank you, though, for
your prayer, Auut Pallas— I'll remember it to my dyin' day.
Here's the gun— take it. P'raps if I keep it an hour longer,
I'll want to do some mischief with it. Take it, while you can
get it ; and bring me some food, as you promised. If you
break your promise, and bring them men here to take me up,
I shan't never have no faith in prayers. If you want to make
a Christian of me, you mus'n't fool me."

" Neither will I," said Pallas ; " I'll be back here in an hour
wid bread and meat. You'd better make up your mind, by dat
time, to go home wid me, gib yerself up to masser, and let him
do as he feels is best wid yer. He'll act for de bes', be sure."

She took the gun and hastened off with it, glad to get that
means of harm away from him. She was firmly resolved not
to break her promise to him, much as she desired thai he
might be put in safe quarters, and this uncomfortable suspense
be done away with. As he had confessed himself so change-
able in his moods, she did not rely much upon his present
one. Reaching home, she stowed the rifle away, saying
nothing about it, and filling her basket with substantial food,
Bhe returned to the appointed spot. To her surprise, Ben was
not there. She waited a few minutes, but he did not come-

THE BASKET WAS GONE. 97

" I can't bar to know a human critter is starving to def,"
she muttered, setting the basket in a branch of the fallen tree.
" I'll leave dis here— and now I've kep' my promise I'll go
straight home and tell masser all 'bout it, and he can take sech
steps as he tinks bes'."

She gave a graphic account of the whole interview to the
raftsman as soon as he came in to tea. When she came to
that part of his confession where he spoke of being about to
choke Philip, while on the river, Alice turned pale, saying
with a shudder— as she recalled one of those visions whicli
haunted her dreams during that terrible period of the journey
of her lover with his deadly enemy:

" Yes ! yes ! I did— but it was in a dream. I beheld the
Bkiff gliding along in the starlight, Philip sleeping, his arm
under his head, and his carpet-bag for a pillow; Ben was
Btooping over him, his face was white as ashes, his teeth were
ilenched, his hands were creeping toward Philip's throat — I
Bprang upon him— I held his hands— I drew him back— I
screamed— and the scream awoke me, and father rushed into
my room to see what was the matter. You ridiculed my
nightmare, father, don't you recollect ?"

" Poor boy," said the raftsman, wiping a tear from his cheek,
when his servant had concluded her relation. "I'm right
down sorry for the lad. And when you are married and ouj
of the way, puss, I'll take him in hand, and try and reclaim
him. He'll make a man yet."

" He ain't to blame fer his faults, seeing he's never had no
good broughten' up. I'll teach him the New Testament doc-
trines ef he'll only let me, once Miss Alice is Vay," remarked
Pallas.

Mr. Wilde went to the spot indicated by Pallas— the basket
of food had been taken away, but no one was in the vicinity.

ftft ALICK WTLBS.

CHAPTER XII

FAMILY AFFAIRS.

It was the day before the wedding. The house was in
order, to the full satisfaction of the sable housekeeper.
Viands, worthy of the occasion, filled the store-room to over-
flowing. Philip, with his suite, including the minister who
was to officiate, was expected to arrive by supper-time. The
last touches were given to the arrangements, and Alice was
dressed to receive her guests, by the middle of the afternoon.
The motherly heart of her old nurse was so absorbed in her,
tn.a she came very near making fatal mistakes in her dress-
ings and sauces. Every five . minutes she would leave her
work to speak with the restless j'oung creature, who, beauti-
ful with hopes and fears, fluttered from room to room, trying
to occupy herself so that her heart would not beat quite so
unreasonably.

" They are coming !" she cried, at last, having stolen out
for the hundredth time to the top of a little knoll which gave
her a farther view of the river. How gladly the ripples
sparkled, how lightly the winds danced, to her joyous eyes.
" Oh, Pallas, they are coming ! what shall I do ?" and she hid
her face on the old woman's bosom, as if flying from what
she yet so eagerly expected.

" Do, darlin' ? oh, my chile, you got to be a woman now;
no more little chile to run away and hide. Masser Moore
berry proud of his wife dat is to be. Don't make him
'shamed, darlin'."

Ashamed of her ! mortify Philip ! the thought was death
to Alice's sensitive spirit. She lifted her head and became
calm at once.

" There, nursie, I don't feel so startled any more. I tliini
I can meet them, clergyman and all, without flinching."

AN INTRODUCTION. 99

Her lather, who had been on the look-out, took a little skill
and went down to meet the party. Alice stood on the shore,
as she had doae upon the day of Philip's first arrival. A soft
rose glowed in either cheek, which was all the outward sign
of the inward tumult as she saw her bridegroom sailing near
enough to recognize and salute her. She saw in the boat
Philip, the minister, Mr. and Mrs. Eaymond, and a young
lady whom she had never met, and a strange young gentleman.

It was the proudest moment of Philip's life when that
young lady turned and grasped his arm, exclaiming in a low
voice :

" I don't wonder you refused me, cousin Philip. I did not
know such beings existed except in poetry and painting."

Pallas, standing in the door, in an extra fine turban and
the new dress sent for the occasion, thought her pickaninny
did credit to her " broughten' up," as she saw the manner,
quiet, modest, but filled with peculiar grace, with which Alice
received her guests.

" Alice," said Philip, placing the fair hand of the proud
stranger in hers ; " this is my cousin Virginia."

" I have come to wish you joy, Alice," said Virginia, kiss-
ing her cheek lightly, and smiling in a sad, cold kind of way.

Her mourning attire, and the evident melancholy of her
manner, touched the affectionate heart of her hostess, who re-
turned her kiss with interest.

"' For de law's sake, Saturn, come here quick — quick ! Who
be dut comin' up de walk wid masser and de comp'ny ? Ef
dat ain't little Virginny Moore, growed up, who is it ?"

" It's Virginny, sure 'nuff !" ejaculated her husband.

In the mean time that young lady herself began to look
about with quick, inquiring glances ; she peered into the rafts-
man's face anxiously, and again toward the old servants, a
perplexed look coming over her face as she neared the house.

"You needn't say a word, Miss Virginny— it's us, sartain-
Pallas and Saturn, your fadder's people, who had you in our
arms ebery day till you was eight year old. You do remem-
ber old Pallas, don't you now, honey ? My ! my ! what a
Aan'some, tall girl you is growed — de picture ob your fadder.
Yer a Moore tra and tru, Missus. My ole eyes is glad to see
you."

100 ALICE WILDE.

" Hi I hi ! Miss Virginny !" chuckled Saturn, bowing and
scraping.

" Come 'long and let me get your bunnit off. I want to
take a good look at ye, honey. Missus Alice neber was a
Moore — she was like Tier mudder, small and purty and timid-
like ; but ye's a perfect Moore, Miss Virginny. My ! my ! I
know 'em all, root and branch. I toF my ole man Masser
Philip belonged to our Mooreses, but Masser Wilde he neber
let on" — she had the visitor's bonnet off by this time, talking
all the time, and oblivious, in her excited state, of the other
guests.

" Yes, Miss Virginia," said the raftsman, drawing his pow-
erful figure up to its full height, " I am that brother-in-law
you have been taught to detest and be ashamed of. You
would hardly have come to the wedding, if you had known
what poor company you were to get in."

All those of the company who knew him looked at him in
surprise, for he had dropped his hoosier form of speech and
took on the air of a superior man. Virginia looked at him a
moment calmly, taking, as it were, an estimate of the mind
and heart outside of that athletic frame, and gleaming through
those noble though weather-beaten features.

" I do not see any thing to be ashamed of," she said, with
a smile, giving him her hand, frankly, in a sisterly manner.
" I was but a little child, you know, when your connection
with our family commenced. Doubtless I have been influ-
enced by what I have heard. If my father wronged you,
David Wilde, it is time for you to forgive it — lay up no han?
thoughts against the dead."

Her lip trembled over the last sentence.

" Dear Virginia ! is it possible my Alice is to find in you—*

" An aunt ? yes, Philip, — and you are about to marry yout
third cousin. It's rather curious, isn't it ?"

" We'll talk it over after supper," said the host. " Pallas,
our guests are hungry. The river breeze sharpens the appe-
tite."

Pallas wanted no further hint. Perfectly content that she
had the means of satisfying any amount of hunger, she retired,
:rith her subordinate husband, to dish up the feast.

" T 'spect I'll spile half dese tings, I'se so flusterated T)i«

tOVlfl AT FIRST SIGHT. 101

you mind whar' I put dat pepper, Saturn ? I declar' I can't
say wedder I put it in de gravy or in de coffee. I jes' turn
'round and put it in de rnlMrH on de stove, wile I was tinkin'
how cur'us tings happens. Dear ! dear ! I put it in de cof-
fee, sure 'nuff, and now dat's all to be trowed away ! 'Spect
tings won't be fit to eat. Why don' you fly round and grin'
more coffee ? You is de stupidest nigger !"

In spite of small tribulptions, however, the supper was
served in due season and with due seasoning. Gay conver-
sation prevailed ; but Alice, though bright and attentive, felt
uneasy. Her glance frequently wandered to the windows and
open doors. A certain daik figure had so often started up in
unexpected places, and seemed to hover about so when least
expected, that she could not be entirely at her ease. It was
true that several men were on guard, and that Ben had not
been heard of for a week ; but he was so sly, so subtle, she
felt almost as if he might drop out of the roof or come up
out of the earth at any instant.

Philip was warned to be on the look-out. He laughed and
said he was a match for Ben in a fair fight, and if the other
had no fire-arms, he could take care of himself.

Long after the rest of the party, fatigued with their journey,
had retired for the night, David Wilde, Alice, Philip, and Vir-
ginia sat up, talking over the past, present, and future.

Alice, who had never known the particulars of her mother's
marriage and death, except as she had gathered hints from
ner old nurse, now listened with tearful eyes to brief explana-
tions of the past.

Her father, in his youth, had been a medical student, poor,
but possessed of talent — a charity-student, in fact, who, one
day had, at the risk of his own life, saved the lovely daughter
of Mortimer Moore from the attack of a rabid dog in the
street. He had actually choked the ferocious creature to
death in his desperate grip. Grateful for the noble and ines-
timable service, the father invited him to the house to receive
a substantial token of his gratitude in the shape of a sum of
money sufficient to carry him through his course of study.
But the courage, the modesty, the fine address and respectfu.
admiration of her preserver, made a deep impression upon
Alice Moore — it was a case of love at first sig),f. upon both

102 ALICE WILD&

sides — they were young and foolish— the father opposed the
match with contempt and indignation. His rudeness rouaed
the ire of the proud student ; he resolved to marry the woman
he loved, in spite of poverty. They fled, accompanied by
Pallas, the attendant of the young girl ; the father refused to
forgive them ; and then, when sickness and suffering, untem-
pered by the luxuries of wealth, came upon his delicate wife,
the young husband realized what he had done in persuading
her away from her home and the habits of her life. If he
had first finished his studies and put himself in the way of
gaining even a modest living, and she had chosen to share
such a lot, he would have clone right in following the dictates
;f Ji is heart. Now he felt that he had been cruelly rash. A
year of strange, wild happiness, mixed with sorrow and priva-
tion passed, and the wife became a mother. Pallas nursed
her with tireless assiduity ; her husband, bound to her sick
couch, could not exert himself as he might have done alone ;
they grew desperately poor — he could not see her suffer with-
out humbling his pride, and writing to her father to send her,
not him, the means necessary to her comfort and recovery.
They were coldly denied. Privation somewhat, but care,
grief, and trouble more, retarded her recovery, — she fell into a
decline, and died in his arms, who swore a great oath over
her beloved corpse to forsake a world so unjust, so cruel, 60
unhappy. Sending a bitter message to her father, he disap-
peared with their infant child. The old colored nurse, who
had also persuaded her husband to accompany them, went
with him as foster-mother to the child. They traveled to the
far West — much farther in those days than now — and when
they first settled where they now were, they were isolated in
the wilderness.

Mr. Wilde took up his portion of government land. By
the time other emigrants had made settlements down the
river, he had made enough from it to purchase more. Ho
felled timber with his own hands, and drifted it down tc
where it was wanted. As years passed, he employed hands,
built, a mill, and as towns grew up within market-distance,
found business increasing upon him. During all this time he
had nurtured his spleen against the civilized world ; natures
strong and wayward like his, are subject to prejudice— and

fKIDE SHALL HAVE A FALL. 103

because one haughty old aristocrat had allowed a fair child to
perish neglected, he condemned refined society en masse. He
adopted the conversation and manners, to a great degree, of
those by whom he was surrounded.

All these things explained to Philip many incongruities in
the talk and habits of Mr. "Wilde— the possession of books, the
knowledge of man — which had hitherto challenged his
curiosity.

It had been the object of the raftsman to bring up his
daughter in strict seclusion from the world he despised ; he
had not thought of further consequences than to keep her in-
nocent, unselfish, unsuspicious, and free from guile. Chance
threw Philip in their way. His frankness, pleasant temper,
and sincerity excused his fashionable graces in Mr. "Wilde's
estimation; more intimate association with him did much to
wear away the prejudices he had been heaping up unchal-
lenged for so long ; and when it came to the certainty that
his daughter must choose between one of the rough and un-
educated men around her, or on a man like Philip, he could
not conceal from himself that Philip was his choice.

"And what do you think brought me out here at this crit
ical moment ?" asked Virginia. " I come to throw myself
upon Philip's charity — to become a pensioner upon his bounty.
Yes, Mr. Wilde, upon closing up my father's estate, there was
absolutely nothing left for his only child. He lived up to all
that he possessed, hoping, before his poverty became known,
that I would make a brilliant match. A fortnight ago my
lawyer told me there would be nothing left, but a small an-
nuity from my mother, which they can not touch. It is a sum
barely sufficient to dress me plainly— it will not begin to pay
my board. So I, unable to bear my discomfiture alone,
friendless, sorrowful, thought it less bitter to begin anew
among strangers than in the scenes of my former triumph. I
came on to beg Philip to find me some little rural school
where I might earn my bread and butter in peace, unstunf
by the coldness of past worshipers. I'll make a good teacher,
—don't you think so ?— so commanding !"

Yet she sighed heavily, despite her attempt at pleasantry.
It was easy to be seen that earning her own living would g<j
hard with the accomplished daughter of Mortimer Moore.

104 ALICE WILDE.

" But Philip will never let you go away from us, I am
sure," said Alice's soft voice, caressingly.

" Until she goes to a home of her own," added her cousin,
with a mischievous smile. " I wouldn't be guilty of match-
making; but I own I had a purpose in asking my friend
Irving to stand as groomsman with Virginia, How do you
like him, my sweet cousin ? — be honest now."

" Not as well as I have liked some other man, sir ?"

" Oil, of course, not yet ; but you'll grow to it ; and he has
no stain upon his escutcheon — he isn't even a flour-merchant
or mill-owner."

" You haven't told me what he is yet," said Virginia, with
"a slight show of interest.

" He's my book-keeper."

" Oh, Philip ! you're jesting."

" No, indeed, I'm not. He has not a cent, saving his sal-
ary ; but he's a gentleman and a scholar, and has seen better
days."

" Well, I like him, anyhow," she remarked, presently.

" You ought to encourage him to pay his addresses to you.
You could teach school, and he could keep books. You
could take a suite of three rooms, and wait upon yourselves.
I'll promise to furnish the rooms with dimity, delf, and rag-
carpeting."

" You are generous, Philip."

" And to send you an occasional barrel of flour and load of
refuse kindling-wood."

" My prospects brighten."

" Don't tease the girl," said the raftsman, " she'll do bet-
ter 'n you think for yet. Since my own chick has deserted
me for another nest, I don't know but I shall adopt Virginia
myself."

" I wish you would," and the great black eyes were turned
to him with a mournful, lonely look. " Everybody else is so
happy and blessed, they do not need me. But I should lova
to wait upon you, and cheer you, sir."

It was a great change which misfortune was working in
the spirit of the proud and ambitious girl. Philip, who knew
her so well, regarded her present mood with surprise.

"Well, well, without joking, I intend to adopt this orphan
girl. She's the sister of my own dead wife, and she shall

A backwoodsman's generosity. 105

share equally with my little Alice in all that the rough old
raftsman has."

" Which won't be much, father," said Alice, with a smile,
glancing around upon their humble forest home.

"Don't be too sure of that, little one. I haven't felled
pine logs and sawed lumber for fifteen years to no accouDt.
Did you think your two dresses a year, your slippers, and
straw-hats had eaten up all the money-bags I brought home
with me upon my trips. Here's a check for five thousand
dollars, puss, to furnish that new house with ; and when
Philip gets time to 'tend to it, the cash is ready to put up a
steam saw-mill nigh about here, somewhere — the income to
be yours. It '11 bring you in a nice little bit of pocket-money
And if Virginia concludes to accept that pale-faced book-
keeper, thar's an equal sum laid aside for her— and home and
money as much as she wants in the mean time. It shan't be
said the old raftsman's pretty daughters had no wedding por-
tion."

Virginia took his rough hand in her two white ones, and a
I *r mingled with the kiss which she pressed upon it.

106 ALICE WILDE.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TORNADO.

Whex Alice came out of her room dressed for the marriage
ceremony she looked quaintly lovely. Old Pallas sobbed as
ehe looked at her, and her father wiped the dimness again and
again from his eyes ; for it was as if the fair young bride of
long ago had come to life.

Philip had made it an especial request that she should dress
in a costume similar to that she wore when he first loved
her ; and her father had told her to provide no wedding-robe,
as he wished her to wear one of his own choosing. She had
been attired in the bridal robe and vail, the high-heeled satin
slippers, the long white gloves which had lain so many years
in the mysterious trunk. Philip's gift, a bandeau of pearls,
shone above a brow not less pure — set in the golden masses
of her hair.

Virginia laid aside her mourning for that day, appearing ia
a fleecy muslin robe, as bride-maid, and none the less queenly
on account of the simplicity of her dress. Her face had gain-
ed an expression of gentleness which added very much to her
superb attractions, and which was not unnoticed by her com-
panion in the ceremonies.

The words had been said which made the betrothed pair
man and wife. A more romantic wedding seldom has
occurred than was this, in which wealth and elegance were so
intimately combined with the rude simplicity of frontier life.
To see those beautiful and richly-dres^d ladies flitting in and
out the modest house buried in the shadows of the western
ivoods ; the luxurious viands of the cook's producing served
apon tbe plainest of delf, to have the delicate and the rough
so contrasted, made a pretty and effective picture against the
sunshine of that September day. The spirit of the scene was
felt and enjoyed by all, even the venerable clergyman — rich

ABDUCTION OF THE BRIDE. 107

voices and gay laughter blent with the murmur of the river-
fond, admiring eyes followed every motion of the bride. The
oride ! where was the bride ?

She had been standing on the lawn, just in front of the
door with Mrs. Raymond, who was saying—

" ' Happy is the bride the sun shines on,' "

just the previous moment ; Mrs. Raymond had run down to
the river-bank, and was throwing pebbles in the water.

Mr. Wilde, ever apprehensive, ever vigilant, had just missed
tier, and was turning to inquire of the bridegroom, when a
shriek, wild, sharp, agonizing, paralyzed for an instant every
faculty of the listeners.

" Great God, it is that madman !" burst from the father's
lips.

Philip and he sprang out-of-doors together, just in time to
see her borne into the forest, flung like an infant over the
shoulder of her abductor, who was making great leaps along
the path with the speed and strength of a panther. The two
men appointed as guards were running after him. Mr. Wilde
sprang for his rifle — the bridegroom waited for nothing.

" Don't shoot !" he shouted to the men ; " you will kill the
girl !"

Philip reached and distanced the men ; the raftsman, strong
and tall, and accustomed to the woods, passed him even,
madly as he exerted himself.

" If I only dared to fire," he breathed, between his clenched
teeth. " If he would give me just one second's fair and square
aim — but my child, she is his shield !"

Two or three times the two foremost pursuers came in
sight, almost within arm's reach of the terrified girl, crying,
" Philip ! father !" in such piercing tones of entreaty.

" Can not you save me, Philip ?" once he was so near, he
heard the question distinctly — but the furious creature who
grasped her, gave a tremendous whoop and bound, leaping
over logs and fallen trees, brooks, and every obstacle witll
Such speed, that his own feet seemed to be loaded with lead,
and he to be oppressed with that powerlessness which binds
us during terrible dreams. He flew, and yet to his agony of
impatience, he seemed to be standing still.

108 ALICE WILDE.

" Philip— father— Philip !"

How faint, how far away. At length they heard her no
more ; they had lost the clue — they knew not which way to
pursue. The forest grew wilder and denser ; it was dim at
mid-day under those tall, thick-standing pines ; and now the
afternoon was wearing toward sunset.

" Philip," said the raftsman in a hoarse voice, " we musi
separate — each man of the party must take a different track
Here is my rifle ; I will get another from the men. Use it if
you dare — use it, at all risks, if that devil seeks to harm her
His strength must give up some time."

" Don't despair, father," said the new-made husband, but
his own heart was cold in his bosom, and he felt so desperate
that he could have turned the rifle upon himself.

Not knowing but that he was going farther from instead of

nearer to the objects of his search, with every step, he had to

pause frequently to listen for some sound to guide him.

Wandering on in this wild, unsatisfactory way, his brain

growing on fire with horror, suddenly he heard a sharp voice

chanting —

" ' I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,

When the footstep of death is near.' "

The next moment he came face to face with Ben Perkins—

but no Alice was in his arms now, nor was she anywhere in

sight.

" Fiend ! devil ! what have you done with my wife ?"

His eyes shone like coals out of a face as white as ashes, as

he confronted his enemy with a look that would have made

any sane man tremble ; but the wretch before him only stared

him vacantly in the face with a mournful smile, continuing to

sing —

"'And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
Her paddle I soon shall hear.' "

" Where is she — answer me, devil ?"

The hand of Philip clutched the lunatic's throat, and witk
the strength of an anguish as superhuman as the transient
power of the other had been, he shook him fiercely as h«
repeated the question. The madman wilted under his grasp,
but as soon as the hold was relaxed, he slid from under it, and
sprang away.

THE 1 CRN ADO. 109

" ' They made her a grave too cold uad damp,' "
he chanted, darting from tree to tree, as Philip, hopeless of
making him tell what he had done with Alice, tried to shoot
him down.

" He has murdered her," he thought ; and getting a mo-
mentary chance, he fired, hut without effect ; Ben climbed a
tree, springing from branch to branch like a squirrel, until he
reached the top, and like a squirrel, chattering nonsense to
himself. " If I had another shot I would put an end to his
miserable existence," muttered Philip, turning away to trace,
if possible, the track of the man, and find where he had
dropped Alice.

Soon he came out upon a small, open, elevated space — the
river was upon one side, the woods all around. Something
strange was in the air — nature seemed to be listening — not a
breath rippled the water or made a leaf quiver— he felt hot
and suffocated. Despite of all his mental misery, he, too,
paused and listened like the elements — his ear caught a far-
away murmur. The day had been very warm for that season
of the year ; it grew, now, oppressive. A low bank of dark
clouds lay along the south and west, hanging over the prairie
on the opposite side of the stream — it was such a bank o:
clouds as would seem to threaten rain before midnight; but
even while he gazed, a great black column wheeled up from
the mass and whirled along the sky with frightful rapidity.
The distant murmur grew to a roar, and the roar deepened
and increased until it was like the surf-swell of a thousand
oceans. Stunned by the tumult, fascinated by the sublime
terror of the spectacle, he followed with his gaze the course
of the destructive traveler, which flew forward, sweeping down
upon the country closer and more close. The air was black
^night fell upon every thing — he saw the tornado — holding
in its bosom dust, stones, branches of trees, roofs of houses, a
dark, whirling mass of objects, which it had caught up as it
ran — reach the river, and with an instinct of self-preservation,
threw himself flat upon the ground, behind a rock whicL
jutted up near him. He could tell when it smote the forest,
for the tremendous roar was pierced through with the snap-
ping, crackling sound of immense trees, broken off like pipe«
Btems and hurled in a universal crash to the earth.

AMOK WILDE,.

A short time he crouched where he was, held down in
f;ict, pressed, flattened, hurt by the trampling winds; but
-'Othing else struck him, and presently he struggled to his feet.

What a spectacle met him, as he looked toward the forest
from which he had so lately emerged ! A vast and over-
whelming ruin, in the midst of which it seemed impossible
that any life, animal or vegetable, should have escaped. A
desolation, such as poets have pictured as clinging to the
"last man," came over the soul of Philip Moore. Where
were his friends ? where that gay party he had invited from
their distant homes to meet this fate ? where was Alice, his
wife of an hour? His manhood yielded to the blow; he
cowered and sobbed like a child.

The darkness passed over for a brief time, only to come
again with the setting sun, which had sent some lurid gleams
of light, like torches to fire the ruin, through the storm, before
sinking from sight. A drenching rain fell in torrents, the
wind blew chilly and rough.

" I will search for her— I will find her, and die beside her
mangled remains," murmured Philip, arising and turning
toward the forest.

The incessant flashes of lightning were his only lamps as he
struggled through the intricate mazes of fallen trees. It was
ci task which despair, not nope, prompted, to toil through
rain and wind and darkness, over and under and through
splintered trunks and tangled foliage, looking, by the light-
ning's evanescent glare, for some glimpse of the white bridal
robe of his beloved. The hours prolonged themselves into
days and weeks to his suffering imagination, and still it was
not moraing. As if not content with the destruction already
wrought, the elements continued to hurl their anger upon the
prostrate wilderness ; ever and anon the sharp tongue of the
lightning would lick up some solitary tree which the wind
had left in its hurry ; hail cut the fallen foliage, and the rain
fell heavily. It was a strange bridal night.

Not knowing what moment he might stumble upon the
crushed body of some one of bis friends, Philip wandered
through the storm. He felt more and more as if he were
going mad — reason trembled and shuddered at his misfortunes.
Two or three times he resolved to dash his brains out against

FOUND AG Am. Ill

a tree, to prevent himself the misery of going mad and yet
living on in those dismal solitudes, till hunger conquered what
grief refused to vanquish. Then the lightning would glimmer
over some white object, perchance the bark freshly ecalsd from
some shattered trunk, and he would hurry toward H, willing
^-" Alice !" as once she had called, " Philip," through a less
wretched night.

It seemed to him that if no other morning began to come
before long, the morning of eternity must open its gates upon
the world ; the strength of the tempest was spent ; only fitful
gushes of wind swept past; here and there a star looked
down hurriedly through the drifting clouds ; the solemn roll
rf the thunder resounded afar, like the drums of an enemy
beating a retreat.

Exhausted, he sank at the foot of one of those Indian
mounds common in western forests. A gleam of the vanish-
ing lightning flickered over the scene. Hardly had it faded
into darkness before a voice close to his side whispered his
name ; a warm hand felt through the night, touching his ; a
form glowing with life, soft, and tender, albeit its garments
were cold and drenched, sank into his outstretched arms.

" Yes, Philip, it is I — safe, unhurt. And you — are you
uninjured ?"

He could not answer; his throat was choked with the
sweetest tears which ever welled from a man's heart; he
could only press her close, close, in the silence of speechless
delight.

In that hour of reunion they knew not if they had a friend
left ; but the thought only drew them more near in heart than
ever they had or could have been before. Weary and storm-
beaten, but filled with a solemn joy, they clasped each other
close and sank upon the wet sod, to sleep the sleep of exhaus-
tion, until the morning should dawn upon them to light their
search for their friends.

lit ALICE WILDE.

CHAPTER XIV.

GATHERING TOGETHER.

The first ray of morning startled the young couple from
their sweet but troubled sleep.

" You shiver !" exclaimed Philip, looking at the damp, dis-
ordered attire of his wife ; " I ought not to have allowed you
to fall asleep in those wet garments."

" It is but a momentary chill, dear Philip. Oh, let us go
and find my father. Certainty will be more endurable than
this dreadful suspense."

They arose, pursuing their search through the gray dawn
which brightened soon into as glorious a September day as
ever shone. There was no use in trying to convict Mother
Nature of crime and bloodshed ; she appeared totally uncon-
scious of the waste and ruin she had spread over the land the
previous day. Through the wrecked wilderness they strug-
gled forward, silent, sad, looking in every direction for traces
of their friends, and making their way, as correctly as they
could discern it, with the river for a guide, toward the home
which they expected to find overwhelmed and scattered by
the storm.

It was four or five hours before they came in sight of the
cabin, so toilsome was their course ; many times Alice had
been obliged to rest, for hunger and fatigue were becoming
overpowering, and now Philip had to support her almost en-
tirely, as she clung to his arm.

" Take courage, dearest, — there is the house, and standing,
sis I live !"

The storm, sweeping on, had just touched with its scattering
edges the house, which was unroofed and the chimney blown
down, and otherwise shaken and injured, though not totally
demolished. As the two caise in sight of it, they perceived
old Pallas, sitting on tiie front step in an attitude of compieto

GONE TO GLORY.

113

despondency, her apron thrown over her face, motionless and
silent. She did not hear them nor see them until they stood
by her side.

"Pallas ! what is the news ? where is my father?"
The old woman flung her apron down with a mingled
laugh and groan.

" Oh, my chile, my darlin', my pickaninny, is dat you, an'
no mistake ?" Springing up, she caught her young mistress
to her bosom, and holding her there, laughed and sobbed over
her together. " Sence I seen you safe agin, and young mas-
ser, too, bof of you safe and soun', as I neber 'spected to be-
hold on dis yearth agin, let me go now, 'long wid my ole
man — O Lord ! let thy serbent depart in peace !"

" My father — have you heard from him since the storm ?"
" No, darlin', not from one single soul, all dis awful night.
De ladies dey were wid me till de mornin' broke, den dey set
out, cryin' and weepin' and wringin' dere ban's, to look for all
you who was in de wood, Oh, dis has boon a tumble season
for a weddin'. I had a sense all de time suthin' was goin' to
happen. My ooor ole man !"

" What's become of him ?" asked Philip.
" De Lord above alone knows where he be now — oh ! oh I
He was tuk right up to glory, wid his weddin' garment on
I see him sailin' off, but I couldn't help him. Laws ! if mis-
sus isn't a goin' to faint dead over."

" Give her to me, and get something for i:cr to eat and
drink, if you can find it, Pallas. She's worn out."

"I've kep' up a fire in de kitchen, which is low, an' not
much hurt. Til spread a bed down dar and lay her down 0:1
de floor till I make some rig' i, strong tea. Lord be merciful
to me a sinner ! It's times as make ole Pallas's heart ache.
Come 'long wid her, inaeser — I'll tro a mattress on de floor.
Dar, lay her down, I'll hah de tea direckly. Sech sights as I
see yesterday is 'nuff to unsettle anybody as sots dar heart oa
de tings ob dis worl'. When I heard my chile scream, I
tought a knife went right tru me — I could n' run, nor do
ziuthin', I was jes' all weak and trimbling. Dar I stood,
lookin' into de woods, wid eberybody out ob sight, when I
hear de storm a comin'. First I tought it was de ribber brok-
ing loose; I looked round but <ir.t was jes' as peaceable as a

114. AMCB WILDE.

lamb. Here, honey, set up, and drink ycr tea. Den I toughl
de woods on fire, as dey was onct, when dey made scch a
roar, but dey wan't. Den I looked up to see if de sky was
fallin', which was de fust I saw ob de wind. It war a
whirlin' and a roarin' like eber so many tousend, hundred mill-
wheels. It look for all de worl' like a big funnel wid water
pourin' tru. I was so scart, I run back to de house, hollerhV
for my ole man, who was settin' on de fence, lookin' t'oddei
way. But he didn' hear me. It went right past, holdin' me
up agin de wall as ef I war nailed. I seen de air all full ob
ebery ting, chickens and pigs and boards and trees, and it tuk
my ole man right up off dat fence an' carried him up to de
nex' worl'. I see him, wid my own eyes, ridin' off in da
chariot ob de wind, way over de woods, way off, off, out ob
sight. Oh, missus, when I see him goin' so, I mos' wish I was
'long. I know Saturn was a foolish nigger, and a mighty sleepy-
headed. He was n' no use to me much — he was a great cross;
but dar neber was a better-hearted husband. He rain' me like
a chile. And he was so fond of presarbed plums, and such a
hand to help 'bout de kitchen — 'pears to me I hain't no heart
But laws, what bus'ness I to speak my troubles, and you neber
to know where your own fadder is. If masser don't come
back, I'll jcs' lay down an' die. Poor ole nigger no more use.
Dar's Saturn tuk away in de clouds wid his bes' raiment on,
as de Bible commands ; and neber one moufful ob de weddin'
feas' which is standin' on de table, and de rain leaking down
upon it— oh ! hi ! hi !"

" Poor Pallas, I'm sorry for you. But, Philip, I must go-
I feel stronger now."

" No, no, my own darling Alice, you are not fit for furthei
exertion. Remain here in the hands of your nurse. Pallas, 1
leave my wife to your care. She is in a fever now. Change
her clothing and give her hot drinks. I must be off. Keep
up heart, dearest, till I get back."

He had hastily disposed of a cup of tea and a few mouth
ful of food, kissed his bride, and was hurrying from the house,
to go again into the woods for tidings, when a tumult outside
drew ail three to She door. Every one of the missing party,
except poor old Saturn, whose case was hopeless,— and
the raftsman himself, were coming up in a group. Virginia

NO MORE WOODCHUCK PrE. 115

and Mrs. Raymond had encountered them in their search for
the clearing, and had led them out of the woods. Mr. Ray-
mond and the clergyman had been together overtaken by
the tempest ; but it was not so severe where they were, as
in that part of the forest reached by Mr. Wilde and Philip.
Trees had fallen before and around them, but they had es-
caped unharmed. Night coming on, and the rain and
changed character of the scene bewildering them, they had
not been able to make their way out of the woods ; and
of course had suffered from anxiety, in common with their
friends. Their astonishment and joy at beholding the bride
and groom in safety were only held in check by the uncer-
tainty which hung about the fate of their host. Not one
would enter the house, until that fate was known; taking
from Pallas the cakes and cold meat 8he brought them, they
hastened away— all but Alice, who was really too ill from ex-
posure and surpense, to make any further effort.

"Yes, you rest yourself, and try to be composed, honey.
Ef your dear, good father is really taken away, you hab much
to be thankful for, that yer not left unpertected in this
bleak worl'. You've a husband dat loves you as his heart's
blood-and yer father himself will smile in de heaben above,
to tink how glad he is, all was made right, and you with some
one to care for you, 'fore he was tooken away. Dar', dar', don't
hurt yourself a sobbin' so. I cried all night, and now dese
poor ole eyes hab no more tears lef. When I tought I was
lef all alone— no masser, no missus, no husband— my heart
was like a cold stone. I feel better now. Ef masser war
here, I could almost rejoice, spite of my 'flictions. I nius'
bustle round and get suthin' ready for all dese tired, hungry
people to eat, and get dem bed-clo'es dried where de rain beet
id- De table sot, jus' as it wos, when I was out here goin' fer
to put de coffee on, and herd you scream. My poor ole man.
He's gone .up, sure, for I saw him go. Saturn '11 neber eat no
more woodchuck pie in dis life— hi ! hi ! Now, now, picka-
ninny, guess whose comin', and who they're a-bringin'. You
needn't jump out of yer skin, chile, if it is yer own faiher—
hurt, too, I'm afraid, by the way he looks."

Alice sprang to the door. Philip was lending her father
the aid of his strong young arm. Mr. Wilde walked with
difficulty, and his arm hung down in a helpless manner.

HO ALICE WILDE.

" Oh, father, are you hurt?"

"Nothing to speak of— not worth mentioning,— a little
bruised, and my left arm broken. Positively, I don't feel a
bit of pain, since I see you unharmed, my darling."

" But you'll come to a realizing sense of it, by the time we
have set it, after its going so long unattended to," said Philip.

" If I groan, punish me for it," replied the sturdy raftsman.

The broken limb was soon set and splintered, and the
friends had time to look in each others' faces, and realize they
were all together and safe.

" You have not told us how you escaped so remarkably,"
said they to Alice.

"Not anodder word at presen'," said Pallas, opening the
door to the din in;; -room. "De weddin'-feas' has not been
eaten — sech as it ;s. _> e mus' stan' in need of it. 'Tain't what
it would have bee:, yesterday, — but I've did my bes' under de
circumstances."

11 Take my place, Philip ; I'll lie here on this lounge, and
when puss is through, she can feed me."

" If missus '11 cut up his food, I'll wait on massa."

As the declining energies of the party were recruited by the
dinner, their spirits rose to something of the hilarity of the
previous day ; — if it had not been for genuine sympathy with
the sorrow of the old servant, mirth would have prevailed in
proportion to their past distress. An occasional exclamation,
smothered in its birth, told them their host was not quite so
easy as he affected to be ; but he would let no one pity him,
bearing his pain with fortitude.

In the center of the table stood the bride's-cake, a snowy
pyramid, the triumph of Pallas's skill, wreathed about with
garlands. It was fair to look upon, within and without, and
sweet to the taste as agreeable to the eyes.

" Dar' was de whites of fifty eggs beaten up in dat cake,"
its maker declared, in an aside to Virginia.

" Then I should call it a very egg-spensive and egg-strava-
gant article," remarked Mr. Raymond, who had heard the as-
sertion.

" 'Tain't any too nice for de bride it was made fer, masser."

" There's a ring in it," said Alice, as she performed the duty
of the occasion by cutting the cake, " Who has it?"

THE CAVESN. 117

Everybody took their piece with curiosity, and finally Mr.
Irving held up the golden circlet, giving, at the same time, a
glance towards Virginia, too expressive to be misunderstood.

" You'll be married next, Mr. Irving, and we hold ourselves
all invited to the wedding," said Mrs. Raymond.

" I hope I may be," replied that gentleman, with a second
jlance toward the bride-maid; but she was looking to her
olate, and did not seem to hear him.

Virginia had pursued the art of flirtation too long to aban-
don it at once.

As they lingered over the closing cup of coffee, Alice re-
.af.ed the circumstance which had probably saved her life. It
ieemecl she could not endure to dwell upon the terror of her
flight in that wild maniac's arms, passing it over as briefly as
possible.

" When I had given up all hope of rescue, and felt as if
actually dying, from the terror of my situation, my abductor
suddenly paused, before what seemed to be a small ledge of
rock, such as frequently juts out of the ground in these woods,
especially near the river. Pushing aside a vine which trailed
thickly- before it, he thrust me into the mouth of a cave, but
instead of following me in, as I expected, he drew the vine
carefully over it again, and sprung away, singing, —

" * I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,
When the footstep of death is near.'

" The feeling of exquisite relief which came to me in that
moment was quickly superseded by the thought of his speedy
return. While I stood there, trembling, waiting for him to
get out of sight and hearing, in the hope that I might creep
out and elude him, I heard the roar of the approaching tem-
pest. Peering through the foliage, I felt my rocky shelter
tremDle, and saw the forest fall prostrate. As soon as the first
snocK was over, I crept out, thinking nothing but of the de-
struction of my friends. Too distracted to feel any personal
fear, i wandered through the storm, I knew not how many
hours, until, by the merest chance, a flash of lightning revealed
Philip, not four feet away from me."

" The first thing you did, I suppose, was to give him a cur-
tain-lecture, for staying out nights," remarked Mr. Raymond.

*18 ALICE WILDB.

" And now, dear father, I think the roof blew off, and t.
house blew to pieces almost, and your arm was broken, v i
purpose to convince you of the necessity of spending youi
winter with us. It would be foolish to try to make this com
fortablc again, this fall. Your men can put a roof on, to pro
tect it from the weather, and we'll leave it to its fate."

"Since he's disabled and can't defend himself, we'll take
him captive," said Philip.

" Have it as you like, children, I expect to be led around
by apron-strings after this. Next spring, I'll take Virginia,
and come back here, and will put up the handsomest mansion
that ever graced this river-side — it shall be large enough to ac-
commodate the whole family, present and prospective. You
needn't color up, little girl, — I was only thinking of Virginia's
future spouse — eh, Virginia, — what's Mr. Irving blushing for ?"

" I don't know — men should never blush — it's a weakness."

" I wish I could be as unmoved as you," he whispered in
her ear, for he sat by her side. " It would be more becoming
to me than it is to you. Women were made to blush and
tremble."

" Were they, Mr. Irving, then you'd better leave those
things to them, and not be intruding upon their sphere."

" Perhaps I shall obey you, Miss Moore," he said, recover-
ing all his coolness.

She felt that he was a man not to be trifled ?T:»i Sensitive
and full of sensibility as he might be, he was vit ,;.. man to
let a woman put her foot on his neck. He might worship
the foot, but he would not submit to be trampled upon by it.
He would love, truly and deeply, but he must be respected
and loved in return. His was just the spirit fitted to take
the reins and curb the too headstrong and wilful disposition
of Virginia — under the control of a wise and gentle nature like
his, her faults might change into virtues.

Philip was secretly regarding them, delighted to see how
soon he recovered his self-possession, and how quietly he made
his companion feel it. He saw that she fretted under it,
and finally, giving up, exerted herself to be friendly and agree-
able.

" They will be well matched. I never saw a better mate
for my naughty cousin. I had an idea of it, when I invited

THE LOST RING. 119

him to act as groomsman. She'll be a good while giving up,
though."

That Virginia would not yield to this new mastership very
soon was evident. When they had left the dining-room, and
were standing on the portico, Mr. Irving desired to place the
ring which had fallen to him upon her finger — but she re-
fused it with considerable hauteur.

"I only desired you to wear it for safe-keeping. It's a
lady's ring, and I don't know what to do with it. Mrs. Ray-
mond, will you accept it ?"

He placed it on the finger of the married lady with as
pleasant an air, as if it had been accepted where he first of-
fered it.

" I had not ought to wear it ; give it to some fair maiden."

" There is but one, aid she will not have it. If there were
others, I should certainly offer it. So you see it is chance
only that has left it to you."

"Well, I'm not very much flattered Mr. Irving — but the
ring is just as pretty, and I ought to be thankful to chance."

So the ring was lost to Virginia, without the satisfaction of
her hivving annoyed the one who offered it.

130 ALICE WILDE.

CHAPTER XV.

BEN AND ALICE.

" Now that the wedding-feast is disposed of, I must remind
you all that there is yet work to be done. I have not heard
from the mill ; and poor old Saturn must be searched for, as
well "as that unfortunate young man who has made us so
much trouble. It frets me to think I can do nothing. Philip,
you must do service in place of my broken arm."

The party were making ready to go out again, when two
or three men came from the mill, to inquire after the family,
and to relate to the captain the story of the vast damage his
property had sustained.

" Oh, what is de riches of dis worl', masser," said Pallas, as
she, too, paused from her work to hear their interesting narra-
tive of wreck and chaos upon every side, with accounts which
had reached them from people farther down, where the
tornado had made a yet more terrible visitation. " What is
de riches of dis worl', when a bref of de Almighty can sweep
'em away like as dey were dust and trash. My ole masser he
turn you 'way, 'cause yer had no riches, and your chile-wife,
she die of grief; and you come out here and work and work
in de wilderness half as long as de chil'en of Israel— and you
set your foot down, you will be rich, and your chile shall have
much to gib her husband when she got one — and de storm
come, and all yer pine-trees is laid low, and yer mill-wheel is
broken at de fountain, and your riches pass 'way in de whirl-
wind."

" It's time for me to begin thinking of these things I sup-
pose, Pallas. But, as to my losses— I can stand 'em. My
#ood-choppers must work briskly this winter, among this
fallen timber — and as for the old mill, I think it has gone to
pieces to hasten the fulfillment of my plan of erecting a steam
mill in its place. I've worked for Alice, and now I must
work for Virginia."

THANKSGUVTNG. 121

"Lot us at least," said the clergyman, who was standing
by, " be reminded of our duty by this humble colored woman
—let us offer up thanks for our wonderful preservation."

All knelt, except the disabled raftsman, while the minister
offered up a heartfelt thanksgiving, when the party set forth
into the tangled forest again. Alice, who had been overcome
more by anxiety than by fatigue, was so recruited, that she
insisted upon going with Philip. Her familiarity with the
woods she thought would enable her to trace the way to the
spot where Ben would doubtless be found a corpse ; the fact
that he was high up in the branches of a tall tree when the
tempest struck the spot, making it almost certain that he was
destroyed. Two or three foresters, Raymond, and Philip,
followed their guide, as she wound through and climbed over
matted branches and fallen trunks, pausing occasionally for
some trace of the familiar aspect of yesterday. In many
places the forest looked actually as if a band of giant reapers
had passed that way and mowed down the trees in mighty
swaths. Again, when the tornado had taken a more whirl-
ing moment, the great trunks would be twisted and snapped
off in long splinters, ten or twelve feet from the ground. An
overwhelming sense of the terrific power of their unwelcome
visitor oppressed them, as they beheld its ravages in the broad
daylight.

"And yet, dear Philip, it may have been sent by Provi-
dence to save me from a fearful fate— or at least, it did save
Me, and I am grateful— oh, so grateful," whispered the young
wife, as Philip assisted her over a huge tree which lay, torn
up by the roots, across their path.

"It must have been somewhere about here," she said,
presently.

"I am sure I have no idea of the locality," answered
Philip.

" Yes ! there is the ledge of rock, and the cavern into which
he thrust me. Poor Ben ! I forgive him all. I hardly dare
go on— I am afraid I shall see some dreadful sight ;" and she
shuddered.

" Perhaps you had better rest yourself, while we search this
Vicinity closely."

" Oh, no ! I am too nervous to be left alone. I will keep

122 AlilCE WILDE.

by your side," and she clung to his arm, growing paler every
moment, and scarcely daring to look before her.

" Hush !" exclaimed one of the foresters, half-an-hour later,
turning back toward the young couple who were some dis-
tance behind. " Don't let her come near. We've found him ;
he's dead as a hammer."

Alice sat down upon a fallen tree-trunk, faint and trembling.

" Stay here, dearest, a few moments. I will come back to
you," and Philip went forward with the men to where, amid
the ruins of the forest, — Ben lay, a crashed and senseless
human thing. He was dreadfully mutilated, and to every
appearance dead. They dragged him out from under the
heavy branches, and as they did so, a low groan startled them.
One of the men sank down and took the head upon his knee.

" Where's Alice ?"

Ben unclosed his eyes, as he asked the question, moving
them about from one face to another with a searching glance.

" I'm dying — bring her quick. Oh, do bring her, won't
you ?"

The gasping voice was loud and thrilling ir tie eagerness
of its entreaty. Philip turned away and went for his wife.

" Do you think you can bear the sight ?"

" If he wishes to see me, I shall not deny a dying man.
He took many a step for me, in his better days — poor boy."

Ben seemed to distinguish her footsteps as she drew near.
He could not stir, but his eyes turned in that direction.

" Are you cryin' for me ?" he asked, as she stood by his
side, the tears flowing down her cheeks like rain. "It's
enough to make a man die happy to see you cryin' for him,
A.lice."

" O Ben ! I wish I could help you," she sobbed.

" I'm past earthly help, and I'm glad of it. It's the best
thing could happen to a used-up fellow like me. I don't
blame you for it, Alice, but I'm to blame for things I've done,
and I want to ask you to forgive me. My head's been on fire
for weeks — I've been in a strange state — I can't recall what
I've did or said. Then I got hurt, I don't know how— and
when I could think again, that burning pain in my head was
gone, I knew I was dyin', and I wanted to see you. I
wanted to carry the pictur' of your face to the next world. I

DEATH OP THE YOUNG. 123

shouldn't be ashamed to show it to the angels — if they'll have
any thing to do with a poor, ignorant fellow like me, as Tallas
said they would. You're married, ain't you V"

" She is n\y wife." said Philip, gently, taking her hand.

" It made me crazy to think of it once ; but it's over now.
Alice, you've my blessin' and my wishes that you may be
happy all your life. Forgive me the trouble I've made ye,
and may you and him be happy long after the grass grows
over poor Ben Perkins."

Alice sobbed aloud, and the rough men standing around
were grave and silent. The last sentence had been spoken in
a whisper, and it was evident that life was ebbing away
rapidly. He closed his eyes, and the sweat gathered on ths
pallid face, but a short time since, rich with the olive and
crimson of health and youth.

" I shan't be twenty-two till next month," he whispered,
with shut eyes. " Put it on my tombstone, and let 'cm put
on it —

" ' Oh, his heart, his heart was broken
For the love of Alice Wilde.' "

They stood looking at him.

" Alice — good-by. Alice — where are you ? Alice !"

" Here, Ben — here I am ;" but she spoke to a corpse.

He died with the name of the woman he had loved with
all the power of his passionate nature trembling upon his last
breath.

The next day they buried him in a lovely spot on the bank
of the river; and, spite of all his errors and crimes, he was
not unwept and not unmourned. Once he had been gn.y and
frank, kind and honest, handsome and merry — and the memory
of his good qualities swept away the judgment passed upon
his later actions.

Poor Saturn's remains were not discovered; and Pallas,
with the superstition of her class, was inclined to believe thai
ne had been translated bodily, in the chariot of the wind, to
that better world of which they had spoken so much together.
It was a pleasant belief, and afforded her great consolation.

" He allers was so fond of dressin' and good clo'es ; and
he'd been taken up in his new suit as if a-purpose to please

134 ALICE WILDE.

him. Ef he'd only a partaken of de weddin'-feas', he couldn't
hab been better prepared 'an he was. Hi ! hi !"

It was a picturesque-looking party which sailed away from
"Wilde's mill one brilliant day in September.

" One doesn't see such a bridal-party every clay, or take
such a bridal tour '* remarked Virginia to the groomsman by
her side. " It's better than six fashionable weddings, with the
usual routine. I used to have a contempt for the romantic—
but I'm begining to like it."

Yes, even the aristocratic Virginia, the beautiful metropoli-
tan, began to be infatuated with the romance of the forest.

We may yet hear of more remarkable changes than her
change of opinion. We may yet see a villa, charming as
those which grace our lordly Hudson, rising amid the elms
and beeches on the hanks of that fairer Western river—for
love, beauty, taste, and money can accomplish wonders more
surprising than making the wilderness blossom like a rose—
and " out West" Aladdin's lamp is no myth.

But, for the present, we will leave this picturesque party
sailing down this broad, silver river in the purple and gold of
an autumn day — leave it to its joyous light, and leave that
one new-made grave to its silence and shadow.

OTB WSD.

BEADLE'S

American Library,

NO W READ Y;

SETH JONES. \

ALICE WILDE.

THE FRONTIER ANGEL.

MALAESKA.

UNCLE EZEKIEL.

MASSASOIT'S DAUGHTER.

BILL BIDDON.

THE BACKWOODS' BRIDE.

NAT TODD.

SYBIL CHASE,

MONOWANO.

THE BRETHREN OF THE COAS'

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SON: